Avenger (2 page)

Morgan felt around carefully at the base of the tree where the man would have been sleeping. It didn’t take long before he found what he was looking for. He knew by the feel of it that it was an FN FAL, a
Fabrique Nationale
7.62 millimeter light automatic rifle. Or SLR, self-loading rifle, as they used to call them back home. Old school. There was no way he was going to carry around the FN. He didn’t need it; it was long and cumbersome, and getting rid of it quietly would waste time. So, it would stay where it was but not in a condition for anyone to use it against him. Morgan quietly removed the magazine and pulled back the cocking handle, ejecting the round that was already in the breech. Then he eased the cocking handle forward again as quickly as he dared so it wouldn’t jam, opened the weapon and extracted the rat’s-tail breech block, which he threw, along with the magazine, over the wall.

Morgan moved cautiously through the shadows to the porch, which ran along the entire rear of the house. He stepped up on to it and walked quickly to the back door. He grabbed the knob and turned. It was unlocked, for the sentry no doubt. He took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door inward with his left hand, careful not to allow any unexpected squeals from the hinges to warn anyone that he was in town. His right hand was grasped firmly around the pistol grip of the M4 with his forefinger resting on the trigger. The place was in full darkness with only a few slivers of moonlight reaching the interior so it was difficult to see anything, but he soon realized he was in a kitchen by the lingering smells of the night’s meal. He crept on through the kitchen, stopping and listening and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. What was that sound? He paused, mouth open and eyes closed, listening. It stopped. Nothing but silence. He moved deeper inside and repeated the process – stopping, listening, vision adjusting, breathing controlled. There it was again. It sounded like 1980s synthesizer music, fast paced, and accompanied by voices and explosions, getting louder and building in intensity. A wry smile broke across Morgan’s face as he recognized what he was hearing. No way. He continued for another five paces until he was well inside the house.

His vision had adjusted fully now and he saw through the darkness as well as an average person would see outside at dusk. It was the central living area, sparsely furnished, with nothing more than a long sofa against the wall under the front window to his left, a couple of arm chairs and side tables, and a coffee table, which was low and square; the usual stuff. At the far end of the room was a snooker table and beyond that a door that led into a bedroom. It was the only door on that side of the room and beyond it was the source of the noise he could hear. Through the door, Morgan saw a white light flickering, illuminating the room an eerie gray, occasionally interspersed with flashes of color and darkness in equal measure. It paused, then began again, in the same peaks and troughs of monotonous repetition. He crept on through the empty living area, stepping carefully over the refuse of what looked to be a party – empty beer and wine bottles, bowls, plates, glasses and some clothes. The place stank of marijuana, booze and sex. Each step brought him closer to the bedroom. As he reached the door he could clearly see the room’s layout, complete with occupants.

There was a huge bed in the center, basic bedside tables, and a chipped, rickety-looking wardrobe. Morgan approached cautiously but despite all the noise there was no apparent activity. He stepped over the threshold and everything went dead quiet. Christ! His hands tightened around the M4 and he drew the barrel upward ready to fire with the butt pulled firmly back into his shoulder. There was still no movement. Two extra paces into the room told him all he needed to know. A TV screen about half the size of the wall it was bolted to had been left on and filled the room with light. On the screen the menu page of a DVD was going through its looped sequence of spliced highlights.
You’ve got to be kidding
, thought Morgan. It was one of his favorites from childhood, a B-grade sci-fi cult classic called
Trancers
, featuring time-traveling cop Jack Deth. The silent moments came and went as the sequence reached its climax and looped to begin again. Morgan grinned. Of all the places. But it was the bed that held his attention.

A man, overweight, not tall, was sprawled naked on the edge of it and bundled beside him were two young women, also naked. A third woman lay sprawled in a heap on the floor between the bed and the screen. She must have fallen off at some stage and got comfortable there. Fortunately, they were all asleep, and judging by the chorus of snores, deeply so. Great!
How the fuck was he going to extract Chomba from among the tangle of his brides without causing a ruckus?

“Sometimes, Mr Morgan, you’re left with no alternative but a direct assault!”
The wise words of the regimental sergeant major from Morgan’s days as a young officer cadet came to mind.
Fair enough then, sar’ major. Direct it is.

Morgan took his cell phone from a pocket and moved in close to the edge of the bed. He stood for a while studying the sleeping man’s face carefully via the light of the screen, comparing it to images stored on the phone. Yep, he was satisfied. Definitely Chomba. He leaned in close and sniffed. The man stank of too much alcohol and too many joints. His breath was rancid.

Morgan eased the M4 back down to his side, still slung, and extracted the Sig Sauer P226 from the leg holster on his right leg, placing it down on the bedside table. Then he looked around and found a discarded sarong that appeared to belong to one of the girls. He grabbed it and draped it over his own shoulder and back. Given what he was about to do, he didn’t fancy the idea of having Chomba’s recently engaged tackle dragging all over him and he couldn’t very well deliver him naked into the custody of Interpol Dar es Salaam once they reached Tanzania. He took Chomba by the hand, slipped the man’s legs over the edge of the bed and dragged him up into a sitting position. Chomba was fat, practically comatose and a dead weight, and lifting him was not easy. Morgan got down as low as he could beside the bed and toppled Chomba awkwardly forward until he fell across Morgan’s left shoulder and on to the sarong, in a classic fireman’s lift. Morgan stood up and hefted his captive into position. Then he retrieved the P226 from the table, gave Jack Deth and his compadres on the screen a nod of thanks for providing the background noise, and walked out of the room.

No one even stirred.

“Mei-Zhen, quickly!” cried Chi, beckoning her frantically, his voice shrill above the din of machinery. “Quickly!”

“What is it?” she replied, running to her young colleague. Mei-Zhen instinctively crouched beneath the window that looked over the factory floor. The main area contained ten rows of long tables, each with twenty sewing machines on them. The operators kept their heads down, working eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. On the outskirts of the factory, behind a series of large garage-style roller doors, were the heavy machinery and electronics areas. Productivity was paramount in all three workspaces but safety was negligible. In the heavy machinery areas, almost every piece of equipment had been modified to remove safety shields to reduce delays in the manufacturing process. Some workers had lost their fingers or, worse, hands or eyes, but workers were easily replaced.

“What are we looking at?” asked the young woman.

“There. Oh my God!” Chi exclaimed, directing her attention to the nearest corner of the sewing-machine area.

Two men in black suits were beating one of the sewing-room supervisors with rattan canes. Everyone else ignored the violence, terrified, obediently continuing with their work in order to avoid the same treatment.

“They’re working their way across the floor, picking people at random. That’s the fifth person I’ve seen them beating! They’re coming this way!”

“Please, calm down, Chi,” said Mei-Zhen, firmly. “We mustn’t let them see us. Please.”

Her words did little to calm him. He was only fifteen and employed as the office assistant, which meant that he did the photocopying, ran errands and fetched coffee and cigarettes. These two new arrivals had carried out arbitrary beatings over the past couple of days but so far the office staff had been spared. They were not sure their luck would hold and Chi was terrified and inconsolable. He let out an involuntary scream. Mei-Zhen clutched him to her tightly, trying to quieten him, but it was too late. The two men in black were heading toward the staircase. Somehow they’d been noticed, or the scream had been heard on the factory floor, despite the deafening sound of the machinery.

Mei-Zhen Tan heard their heavy footfalls strike the metal stairs. When they kicked the door open she was standing defiantly in front of Chi, ready for them to do their worst.

To the casual observer they were just two people, clearly senior officials – they had that look about them – making their way purposefully but unhurriedly along Whitehall from the Cenotaph, following the close of the Remembrance Day service.

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and other members of the Royal Family had already left, concluding the official observances and heralding the departure process for hundreds of military and government officials, representatives from other nations, and the thousands of citizens, mostly ex-servicemen and -women, who had gathered, as they did every year at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, to pay their respects to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice in war. Between Big Ben and Nelson’s Column, Whitehall was a mosaic of multinational uniforms, winter overcoats, umbrellas, and, of course, the red poppies of Flanders Field.

The man was well over six feet tall, distinguished looking, with his gray hair and beard, and dressed in a charcoal, knee-length overcoat, complemented by a black scarf and leather gloves. Navy blue pin-stripe trousers were visible below the hem of the coat, falling perfectly upon black brogues polished to a high sheen. He had an old-world regal appearance about him, similar to Prince Michael of Kent, and favored his right knee when he walked, giving him a barely discernible limp.

The woman to his left was not as tall but still close enough to six foot in her low heels. She was younger than him, probably by at least ten years. She had pale skin made paler by the slash of red lipstick she wore, in striking contrast to her dark eyes and jet-black hair, taken back in a French pleat beneath her plain felt hat. She wore a close-fitted black overcoat, belted tight at the waist, accentuating the swell of her breasts.

These two were well known to each other. Their body language said as much as they walked along the sodden pavement back toward Westminster, weaving their way through the throng of other officials and attendees, occasionally stopping to chat with young veterans, some in uniform and others in suits, who stood waiting respectfully for the dignitaries to depart.

The more astute observer would have noticed that the pair were not walking alone, although they were being given some privacy. Behind them, maintaining a professional distance but within acceptable reaction parameters, were two men, thirty-something, fit, solidly built, and serious faced. Bodyguards.

The trained observer would note that the two men were there to protect the woman. Their attention was clearly more geared toward her exposed left side and in front of her, searching for any sign of threat. A third member of the protection team was walking ahead of the woman. There didn’t appear to be any special protection measures in place for the man, although appearances could be deceiving.

She was Dame Violet Ashcroft-James, DCMG, chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, or “C” as the chief is traditionally known. He was Major General Reginald “Nobby” Davenport, CBE, DSO, MC, chief of the Intelligence, Recovery, Protection and Infiltration Division of Interpol, otherwise known as Intrepid.

“It breaks my heart to see so many young men in wheelchairs, Nobby,” said Ashcroft-James. “So many amputees too. The trauma of what they’ve been through is written all over their faces. Hard to believe we’re still sending our young off to war. Will we never learn?”

“Sadly, I don’t believe we ever will, Vee,” General Davenport replied with a sigh. “War is in our blood. Has been for millennia and will be for many more, I’m afraid. And who are we to talk? We both make life or death decisions every day, do we not?”

They walked on in silence for a little until she moved even closer to him and slid her arm under his.

“I remember when you used to go away,” she began in a low voice. “All those years ago.”

“Almost thirty,” he replied, looking at their linked arms thoughtfully.

“Oh, don’t be so horrible! Surely it can’t be that many?”

“Give or take,” he said, smiling.

“My God. What was the reason the first time – after you had to leave London and return to Aldershot with the Parachute Regiment? Northern Ireland, I suppose … Does that sound about right?”

“Yes, I was with 3PARA then,” he said. “We were called in for an emergency tour and stayed for six months.”

“Then you joined the SAS and I didn’t see you or even hear anything for months at a time; constantly in and out of Northern Ireland and God knows where else. That was the most terrible part of it … the not knowing. And then, just when I thought I’d have you back for a while, it was the first Gulf War. Desert Storm.”

Davenport breathed in deeply and took his time over replying.

“Why all the ancient history, Vee?” he asked. “It was all so long ago.”

“Seeing all these servicemen, I suppose, and being among them with you. It’s just brought it all back to me. What it felt like whenever you went away. Never knowing where you were or what you were up to. Do you ever wonder what it might have been like if …”

“If?”

“If we’d made it. Stayed together, I mean.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. “You really are reminiscing now, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious,” she said. “Do you?”

“I suppose it’s crossed my mind from time to time, but it was all so long ago. You’ve been happily married for many years. And I’ve had my share of disasters since.” He laughed. “But I’ve been happy, too. I don’t believe in regret. Life’s too short. We all make decisions, good or bad, and then we must live with them.”

She remained silent, walking along with him, still arm in arm, huddled against the bite of the cold wind that bowled them along. They continued so until they eventually turned right on to Great George Street. After a time, Davenport broke the silence.

“Is everything alright, Violet?” he asked. “You don’t seem yourself today.”

“I’m fine, Nobby, really,” she said. “It’s just that we seem to be having so many of these memorial occasions of late; one can’t help but reflect on one’s own life. When I’m surrounded by all these young men and women in their uniforms, doing whatever is asked of them and, in many cases, never being the same again, my thoughts inevitably return to you. To war and separation. Now our lives have moved on. We’re both so immersed in our own contributions to the security effort that sometimes I forget what drew me to it in the first place, don’t you?”

“My dear—” he began in a gentler tone.

“No, Nobby, it’s OK. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, believe me. Silly of me. I’ll be all right.” She stopped walking as a gleaming black Jaguar XJ pulled up discreetly against the curb nearby. The bodyguard who had been walking ahead of them took up position beside the car. Still maintaining surveillance of the surrounding area, he opened the rear door in readiness for Ashcroft-James to get inside. An identical car pulled in behind the first. “May I offer you a lift?” she said.

“No, thank you, Vee,” replied Davenport. “The walk will do me good. Why don’t we catch up soon for lunch? It’s been a while.”

“That would be lovely,” she said, somewhat distracted. “I’m about to head off to France for a short trip, meetings and so on, but I’ll get my assistant to call Mrs Jolley and we’ll put something in the diary. OK?”

“Sounds perfect,” he replied. “Do take care of yourself. And don’t get up to any mischief over there.”

They hugged, Davenport kissed her on the cheek and Ashcroft-James climbed into the back of the car. She waited until the door was shut before she reached into the folds of her overcoat for her phone. She smiled at Davenport as the car pulled away, taking a hard right past the Palace of Westminster and heading for Vauxhall Cross. She speed-dialed a number.

“It’s me,” she said. “I’ve been chatting with him all morning. Tried a variety of angles, but couldn’t get a bloody thing out of him. Impossible to say whether he has any current interest or not.” A pause while she listened. “No, I wouldn’t discount it. But he isn’t giving anything away.”