A Covert War

TWENTY

Susan carefully composed the text message using cryptic language that she hoped Cavendish would understand. When she was satisfied that she had written the text out correctly on a scrap of paper, she punched the letters into her mobile phone and held her finger over the ‘send’ button.

‘You promise we will see David?’ she asked Abdul again.

Abdul nodded but said nothing. Marcus thought the man looked quite nervous.

‘It’s done,’ Susan said, breathing out sharply and lifting her finger off the key. She looked guardedly at Marcus. ‘All we can do now is wait.’

Abdul leaned on the desk and pushed himself upright, shoving the chair back with his legs. It scraped noisily on the bare floor.

‘When we receive the reply I want, I will take you to see your brother.’ He walked round from behind the desk. ‘Now we must see about getting some sleep.’

He left Marcus and Susan sitting together in the room. They said nothing for a while. Marcus yawned which made Susan do the same thing. They were both very tired. It was past midnight and the talking had gone on for such a long time, neither of them had been aware of their tiredness creeping up on them.

When Abdul came back he motioned them to follow him. He took them both along the corridor to an open door. He stood there and pointed into the room.

‘You will sleep here,’ he told them. ‘Keep your door shut. If you need anything urgently, there is a nun sleeping in that room there.’ He pointed along the corridor to a closed door.

‘Where will you be sleeping, Abdul?’ Marcus asked.

Abdul smiled. ‘I won’t be far away.’ He put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and bowed his head. ‘May the one, true God be with us all tonight. Salaam.’

When Abdul had gone, Susan and Marcus looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished. There was a single bed and a very small table on which a jug and bowl were standing. It looked like the room was almost certainly intended for a nun because of the crucifix tacked to the wall above the bed and the complete lack of character in the room.

Susan and Marcus exchanged glances. She could see the unasked question in Marcus’s face and put her hand on his arm.

‘Marcus,’ she said softly, a tremor in her voice. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, but I don’t want to be left alone tonight.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘You won’t be; I’ll be sleeping on the floor beside you,’ he told her.

Susan gripped his hand tightly. ‘No, Marcus, you don’t understand. I’m scared and I need you to be close.’

She then pulled Marcus towards the bed and laid on it. She looked up at him and turned to face the wall. He laid full length behind her, then put his arm around her and slipped it beneath her blouse. He felt her stiffen and put her hand over his. Then she relaxed and he moved his hand over her breast, and squeezed it gently.

Susan moved her hand and placed it over the top of Marcus’s. She sighed and breathed in deeply. For a brief moment, both of them thought of nothing else but each other. But the truth was, neither of them felt safe.

Cavendish watched the Military Policeman leave his room with Lieutenant McCain. They had questioned him about the unprovoked attack the previous evening, but offered no clues as to why it took place. The MP suggested lamely that because of the number of people on the base, it was possible that one or two criminal elements on the base may have been attempting to mug him and been scared off.

Cavendish was quite happy to go along with that, but didn’t believe it for one minute. He said nothing of his fears to either of them, and they were happy to record the incident as an unprovoked attack by person or persons unknown.

It was as they were leaving the room that he found himself staring at the back of the MP. The uniform the man was wearing was common enough, but it took Cavendish’s mind back to the attack on Marcus and the two policemen at the bonded warehouse at Feltwell. It wasn’t the police uniform so much as the events and the personnel surrounding it. Everybody seemed to get in on the act afterwards, including the CIA.

And that was when it struck him; like a sudden realisation that he had interpreted that vital clue in a complicated crossword puzzle. Except that this was no crossword; it was a deadly game of murder.

The civilian he saw coming out of the main entrance of the Base Headquarters with an American Officer was Randy Hudson, the expelled Station CIA chief in England.

Cavendish’s heart sank as it dawned on him that The Chapter must have very powerful allies within the military to be able to send Hudson out to Afghanistan, without any sanctions, where he would be at the heart of the sinister work the organisation carried out.

Hudson should have been languishing in a police cell in America right now, awaiting charges of conspiracy, drugs and arms smuggling, and most other crimes that would send him to the electric chair, or at least many years on death row hoping he would beat the death penalty.

Hudson must have seen him; it was the only explanation Cavendish could think of. He was attacked last night to stop him; nothing else. He knew then that his own life was in jeopardy if Hudson learned that he had not succumbed to the attack, but in fact was recovering in the Base hospital.

He threw the covers from his bed and swung his legs round, sitting up at the same time. He was wearing a standard issue, hospital gown, which barely covered his backside as he stood up and went in search of his clothes.

As he reached into the slim, tall locker beside his bed, he heard his mobile phone ringing and vibrating. He put his hands into the pocket of his trousers which were hanging up and pulled the phone out. A text message had come through from MI6 in London. The message had been sent in ‘clear’, so Cavendish read the actual letters that Susan had entered; there was no code.

Five minutes later and Cavendish walked out of the Base hospital knowing that the next phase of the game had shifted; it had now become critical.

Shortly after Cavendish had read the text message from Susan, the CIA liaison officer at Khost base punched in a selection of numbers on his desk phone. He only waited a few seconds when he heard the voice of Randolph Hudson on the line.

‘Sir, I have something I think you will want to see.’ He put the phone down without waiting for a reply. Five minutes later Randy Hudson walked into the liaison officer’s room.

‘We picked up a transmission,’ the young official told him. ‘It’s from somewhere in Afghanistan to MI6 in London. We listen in on their Mercury 6 satellite sir,’ he reminded Hudson. ‘The message wasn’t coded sir, transmitted in clear. Headquarters at Langley interpreted the message and sent an encrypted version here.’ He picked up a sheet of notepaper. ‘I’ve written the message down sir.’ He passed it to Hudson.

The CIA man read the message nodded briefly and thanked the young CIA official. ‘Time to kick ass,’ he said, and left the room.

Milan Janov was watching an Arab channel on the hotel room TV when the phone rang. It was Hudson. He told Janov that his informer, an interpreter who was paid by the CIA had told him where Abdul was heading. He passed the details on to Janov.

Janov’s face broke out into a broad grin as he put the phone down. He switched the TV off and picked up his leather jacket from the foot of the bed. Then he went to the room next door to his and knocked gently on the door.

‘Rafiq, it’s me; Milan!’

Maggot opened the door and let him in. Janov closed the door behind him.

‘I know where Abdul is going; north from here, about twenty miles.’

Maggot looked surprised. ‘That was quick, Milan.’

It should have come as no surprise to Maggot that Janov had picked the information up quickly; there were that many spies in Afghanistan and people in other people’s pockets that it was amazing that they didn’t publish daily bulletins in the local press concerning the whereabouts of people.

‘I’ll go and pick up a hire car now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll meet you down in the lobby in one hour.’

‘What about manpower?’

Janov shook his head. ‘No extra men this time; just you and me. It’s better that way.’ He put his hand on Maggot’s shoulder. ‘We will make our way to Charika and then, after dark we go to where he is hiding and when they are sleeping, we will finish Abdul Khaliq and his friends.’

Cavendish hurried over to Base Headquarters and called in at the Base Security office. He asked to see McCain. Cavendish hadn’t known the head of security very long, less than forty eight hours in fact; but he was about to put a lot of trust and faith in his own instincts and tell Lieutenant McCain the reason why he had paid an unexpected visit to Afghanistan.

Brad McCain was a ruddy looking character, reaching his mid-forties and wearing well in the manner of many Americans in the armed forces. He hailed from Kentucky and had told Cavendish many yarns the previous evening about the county, the horses and the whiskey during their encounter. Cavendish had taken to him quite quickly.

‘Come in Sir Giles. Have a seat.’ McCain had risen from his chair and was pointing to the single chair facing his desk.

Cavendish sat down. ‘Please call me Giles,’ he said. ‘It is so less formal.’

McCain smiled and threw a wink at Cavendish. ‘Anything you say, Giles.’ He sat down. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

‘Have you ever heard of The Chapter of Mercy?’ Cavendish began.

McCain’s expression changed instantly. Gone was the ruddy, smiling, hail-fellow-well-met countenance, replaced by one of caution. He said nothing, just nodded his head.

Cavendish tried to read something in the man’s face, but still had to go with his instincts. ‘They run a mission here in Afghanistan for deprived children. They also operate in Pakistan and India. They do terrific work for the underprivileged and deprived kids in those countries.’

McCain picked up a paper knife and began tapping out a gentle tattoo on his desk top. He looked thoughtful for a while. Then he nodded and told Cavendish that he knew of The Chapter of Mercy.

‘And did you know that they smuggle drugs out of the country and into Europe?

‘I have heard the rumour,’ McCain admitted.

‘And did you know that they smuggle arms back into Afghanistan to keep the armed jihad going?’

McCain’s eyes narrowed and a frown dived from his forehead into deep creases like furrows across his eyebrows.

‘Can you substantiate this?’ he asked.

Cavendish shrugged and gestured with his hands. ‘Of course not, but how often have you, as a security man known facts that you couldn’t prove either because of lack of evidence or because you were under strict orders from your superiors to keep your mouth shut?’

McCain nodded his head and a smile of recognition wandered across his face. He hunched forward, lifting his head slightly.

‘Why don’t you just come right out with it, Giles? Make it so much easier.’

‘Do you know Randy Hudson, CIA chief who was in England until a week ago? ‘ McCain tilted his head slightly and looked up as though he was trying to recall something lodged somewhere in his brain. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Cavendish with the paper knife.

‘Randy Hudson; flew in a couple of days ago. Yeah, that’s the guy. Why, what’s he done?’

So Cavendish told him; as much as he dared. When he had finished, McCain whistled softly through his teeth. He got up from his desk, put the paper knife down and went over to a water cooler. He filled a plastic cup from it, holding it towards Cavendish as an offering. Cavendish shook his head.

What’s your next question?’ he asked, lifting his jaw.

‘I think he had something to do with the attack on me last night,’ Cavendish told him. ‘I saw him coming out of this building with an officer in uniform. I want to know if they were with you and who the officer was.’

McCain pushed himself away from the water cooler and went back to his desk. He tossed the empty cup into his waste basket and sat down.

‘I could tell you to go to hell,’ McCain told him.

Cavendish agreed, and deep down he knew this would be the point at which his raison d’etre would either fail or succeed.

‘But you won’t, will you?’ he put to McCain carefully.

McCain shook his head and gave a short, snuffling laugh. ‘I hate those cocky bastards,’ he said with venom. ‘They act like they’re top guys; look down on us. Probably call us all grunts, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He wrung his hands together, working the knuckles into each palm.

‘What’s your call on this then, Sir Giles?’ he asked suddenly, forgetting Cavendish’s suggestion that he dropped the formality. ‘You wanna get even with him because you got socked over the head?’

Cavendish shook his head. ‘No. What I want to do is bring some signal traffic through your resources, and I don’t want any CIA officer looking in on it. I also want to know the names of any officers that Hudson might be real friendly with.’

‘The signal traffic’s not a problem; I can give you clearance on that effective immediately. But collecting names?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘The C.O. would have my balls if he thought I was going round collecting names.’

Cavendish put his hand up. ‘OK Lieutenant, sorry I asked.’

McCain opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a folder. He extracted a small form from it and passed it across the desk to Cavendish.

‘Just jot your particulars on there. It will be needed for your clearance once I’ve signed it.’

Cavendish took the form and filled in the blank spaces. Then he signed it and handed it back to McCain who countersigned it.

‘Give me one hour and I’ll take you over to the ops room; you can send your signal then.’

Cavendish got up and shook McCain’s hand.

‘Thank you Lieutenant. One hour.’

‘By the way,’ McCain said to him as he was making his way to the door, ‘the guy who was with Hudson? His name is Berry. Lieutenant Chuck Berry; posted in recently. He was on transports, the Hercs, but he had a problem and had to be medically downgraded for a while, so he’s been assigned to the MQ-9 Reaper Flight. I’ll see you in one hour.’