A Covert War

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.

Maggot went into teaching once he had left University, but he found it difficult because of the struggle he had at the boys’ school where he taught. He told Marcus that young boys needed an Alpha Male role model to look up to and respect, and that he felt he was failing to supply that need. Marcus told him that it was because he was a lousy bloody teacher, and they laughed about it. But in the end, Maggot gave up teaching and opened a small gymnasium south of the River Thames, and it was there that he and Marcus spent many a happy hour beating the living daylights out of each other.

‘Why don’t you get a proper job?’ Maggot asked.

‘That’s what my Dad says,’ Marcus answered.

They had finished the lunch that Marcus had willingly paid for and were now having a drink. Marcus had a beer while Maggot had a Coke. Beside them the Thames flowed effortlessly past and the sun tried desperately to come out from behind the clouds. The weather was being kind and allowed them to sit in the garden of the pub without getting too cold.

‘How about next week, Maggot, can you make it?’

Maggot shook his head. ‘Sorry, Marcus, but I’ll be in Pakistan.’

‘Visiting family?’

Maggot nodded. ‘Something like that. And what about you, what’s your latest project?’ he asked.

Marcus explained briefly about Susan Ellis and Cavendish. ‘So I want to know who this Cavendish bloke is,’ he finished saying.

‘Do you think he has a connection with the girl’s brother then?’ Maggot asked him.

‘Got to,’ Marcus said sternly. ‘Otherwise it doesn’t make bloody sense. He’s not a do-gooder, is he? I mean, how come he brings her a piddling bit of information about her brother yet lies about who he really is?’

‘You say he’s Secret Service,’ Maggot reminded him. ‘Could be a bit dodgy poking your nose in there, you know.’

Marcus shot him a sideways glance and lifted the glass to his mouth. ‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ he said.

Maggot shifted on his chair. ‘No, but you will, won’t you?’

Marcus took a mouthful of beer before answering. He put his glass down. ‘The way I see it,’ he began, ‘is that I could find out who this Cavendish bloke is and pass that on to Susan Ellis. Then she could go to the Press and maybe stir up a little mischief; find out about her brother that way.’

Maggot leaned forward, his expression taking a more serious tone. ‘You know, Marcus, my mother and father have always loved it here in this country. Always believed it was truly the land of the free and the fair. But now they admit their adopted nation is no longer free and fair; it’s no longer safe. Since we climbed into bed with the Americans after 9/11 we have been forced to submit ourselves to the security forces. We’ve given them carte blanche to decide what the meaning of freedom is for the British people. They blame terrorism, the Muslims, other people, other countries. But they use those reasons as a stick with which to beat us and subdue us.’ He pointed a finger at Marcus. ‘Just be very careful who you get tangled up with, Marcus. Let Susan Ellis find her own way in this. Her brother is probably dead anyway. Don’t add to the body count.’

Marcus tipped his head over to one side and regarded Maggot with a curious expression.

‘You know, Maggot if we all gave in like that, we’d have been under the jackboot years ago. That Cavendish bloke has dumped on Susan Ellis and simply added to her grief and worry. She has no way of ever learning the truth, and if I don’t help her, no other bugger will.’

Maggot smiled at him. ‘You always were a softie, Marcus. That’s why I keep beating you.’

Marcus leaned across the table and lightly punched his friend in the arm. ‘As long as there is breath in my body…’

Maggot leaned back and started laughing. ‘Oh come on, Marcus, don’t give me that bullshit; you just fancy the girl, don’t you?’

‘Well,’ Marcus admitted, ‘she is a bit tasty. Got to get in with her some way, haven’t I?’

Maggot pulled a face. ‘It’s up to you, Galahad, but like I said, don’t add to the body count.’

Marcus laughed. ‘As if I would,’ he said. ‘As if I would.’

David Ellis stared at the far wall and thought about a story his father had once told him. During the days of National Service in Britain his father knew a married soldier who spent time lying on his bed staring at the ceiling because he had no money and didn’t want to sponge off his mates. He couldn’t afford to anyway. He said the soldier was able to find all manner of interesting things on the ceiling, providing he let his imagination run away with him.

So David was staring at the far wall and trying desperately to let his imagination run away with him. But all he could think of was why there was no paint on the wall and what he would do if he had to redecorate. Which was silly, anyway because he was imprisoned in a bloody cave and the walls would probably look worse if he tried painting them anyway.

This was where they brought him during the day. He didn’t know why, but it was what they did, and when evening came and the sun had set, he was taken back to a place which was little more than an old farmhouse inside a compound.

He had no recollection of time; it simply passed by and had no impact on him. The days merged, one into the other, and his only joy, if it could be called that, was the walk from the house to the cave in the morning, and the return journey in the evening.

He tried applying the soldier’s mind games to that journey and imagining he was going on a trip. But the trouble was, the trip only lasted about two minutes and there was precious little time to get his mind into gear and let his imagination run away with him.

Each morning, before leaving the house, David was allowed to have a good breakfast. He was also allowed to wash and have clean underwear. The cave was little more than a deep hole in the rock. It had a slight curve so that he couldn’t see outside while he was in there, but at least he did have sufficient light by which to see. He wasn’t allowed to read anything, so his own attempt at playing that soldier’s games was the only distraction he could employ. He was always shackled to an iron ring set into the wall of the cave.

David had overcome his appalling injuries and was now nursing little more than an arthritic shoulder, a deep furrow along the side of his skull and a broken heart because of the loss of Shakira. He had no idea why he had been taken from the hospital, and guessed it might have had something to do with being a hostage and being useful as a negotiating tool. But he had been in the kidnappers’ hands for almost a year now, a time he could only really judge by the seasons, and he was no closer to being released than he was when they first brought him there.

He was still contemplating the wall when he heard the sound of footsteps and realised the light had almost faded away to nothing. He had learned long ago that the sun didn’t set in the Central Asia; it simply fell out of the sky and disappeared within a minute of touching the horizon.

He began struggling to his feet when the Arab appeared brandishing some keys. David had a set of handcuffs hooked on to his belt. The Arab put a gag round David’s mouth and then unlocked the cuffs and put them on David’s wrists, ensuring that his hands were behind his back. Then he unlocked the chain which was attached to the iron ring set in the wall and nodded to David; the unspoken permission for David to leave the cave.

The two of them were halfway to the cave entrance when the sound of gunfire came crashing through the evening air. The Arab immediately pulled David back into the cave and held him there for a while. He then peered cautiously from where he was standing and suddenly darted forward, running from the cave leaving David behind. He was pulling the machine gun from his shoulder as he ran.

David hurried forward and stopped by the cave entrance. He saw men running towards the compound firing their weapons as they ran. Return fire started coming from beyond the wall, but suddenly a rocket propelled grenade hurtled into the wall and blew open a large section. Immediately the attackers ran towards the gaping hole, running through the smoke and dust that had billowed up.

As the sun disappeared completely, so the light dropped to a yellowing gloom. Explosions began coming from the compound as grenades were being lobbed in by the attackers. David could pick out the sounds of rifle fire as the defenders in the house returned volley after volley. Suddenly one side of the house fell away as another grenade launched at it found a weak spot, and the ancient, crumbling walls collapsed into a smoking, dusty heap.

David could see men pouring out of the house and being picked off by the attackers. Then he saw flames blossoming up from the old place and could see there was little more that the defenders could do; whoever was attacking them was a well drilled team.

David had never witnessed a fire fight, but had heard many reports of the bedlam, the fury and the fear that is felt and experienced by all who are involved. The fear gives an adrenalin rush to many of the combatants, and those who are left behind are usually dead. There are certainly no prisoners taken, and those who lie on the ground wounded will probably die of their wounds anyway.

It was over in minutes. The attackers had come swiftly and taken the men in the house completely by surprise. David watched as the attackers moved around the compound, rolling bodies over and dispatching those who had not been killed. He wondered what he should do, whether to run out of the cave and let himself be seen by the men or not. He couldn’t shout at them because he was still gagged. If they had been sent to rescue him, they would not have destroyed the house as they would have secured it and left it reasonably intact so they could search for him.

He began to think that possibly these men were not there to rescue him. So what were they up to? And would he be of any use to them? Would they kill him as they had those who had survived the fire fight, or would they ignore him? Did they even know he was there, he wondered?

As if to answer his question, David heard the sound of a helicopter thundering its way towards the scene of the battle. And as the last rays of the sun disappeared completely, the silhouette of the chopper came into view and landed on the hard ground, throwing up clouds of dust. Very quickly the attackers all ran towards the chopper and merged with the billowing sand storm until their figures could be seen no more. Then the helicopter lifted and thundered up and away, the chopping sound of its blades reverberating through the evening air until the sight and sound of it was no more.

It was over. Only David was left. And he was still gagged and handcuffed.