A Covert War (16 page)

‘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.

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.