Defender (4 page)

Davenport had just returned from three days of intelligence briefings in Lyon, covering current INTERPOL operations worldwide. He carried a burden of responsibility few would covet. Strangely, it was this unenviable knowledge and familiarity with the worst of human behaviour that kept him in the game. Davenport had been committed to the defence of others for his entire adult life. It was what he did, driven by a sense of duty his father had instilled in him as a boy.

Troubled, the General turned from the soothing drum of the rain. As was his habit, he loosened his tie and draped his jacket across the back of his chair. It was time for some real work, away from the conference tables and back to the frontlines.

"Mrs. Ashcroft-James has arrived, Sir."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jolley," he responded
to
the intercom. "Please send her in - and arrange some tea, if you would."

Violet Ashcroft-James entered Davenport's office with the familiarity and affection of an old friend, which she was. She was a striking woman, piquant featured, with soft brown eyes and thick raven hair to her shoulders, and always with the left side tucked behind her ear, giving her a constant air of seductive studiousness. She was confident, curvaceous and beguiling, and her presence enveloped him. For many years, Violet Ashcroft-James had been secretly coveted by a legion of hapless Whitehall civil servants and military officers as the 'Venus of Vauxhall Cross'. More recently, bitten by the remorseless sting of receding hairlines, aching joints and midlife paunches, those same men were forced to jealously observe Ashcroft-James growing even more enticing as she matured, referring to her now as the 'Viagra of Vauxhall Cross'.

Ashcroft-James's career had been a dream run from her very earliest days as a young graduate, handpicked for the Ministry of Defence and nurtured all the way to her current role, at the relatively tender age of 49, as Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, or 'C', as the incumbent Chief is traditionally known.

She'd had steady contact with Davenport over the years through the various military and intelligence circles they frequented. And, if the Whitehall rumour mill was to be believed, they'd enjoyed a brief but passionate liaison when Davenport had been assigned to St James' Palace as a young Parachute Regiment Captain and Ashcroft-James had been a new recruit
to
the Ministry of Defence, plucked directly from the corridors of Oxford where she'd read Political Science. They had been discreet
to
a fault but after hours had been inseparable for an intense period of months. However, Davenport's back-to-back missions with the SAS, including the first Gulf War, had apparently put paid to any future for their fledgling relationship.

"It's so good to see you, V," welcomed Davenport with a warm kiss to her cheek.

'I'm sorry to be so cryptic about all this, Nobby," she replied ruefully, still holding his hands. "I felt it best we talk face-to-face."

"Well, you know I'm always delighted to receive a visit, but I fear I'm about to hear something unlikely to meet with my approbation."

"Afraid so." Violet conceded with a slight nod and a twitch of her right eyebrow.

Davenport guided her towards a small cluster of masculine leather chairs, set around an equally masculine circular coffee table of fine mahogany with a patina darkened by age. They made small talk about children, recent holidays and mutual acquaintances. Ashcroft-James skilfully avoided reference to Davenport's recent divorce, his second. Instead she straightened the books on the table before her and reaching over, flicked a small piece oflint from Davenport's lapel before settling on the edge of her seat, ankles crossed one behind the other. It was her way with him, natural and unaffected. Davenport waited a few moments as Margaret Jolley, his Personal Assistant of many years, quietly entered, setting down the tea for Ashcroft-James, coffee for him.

"Violet," Davenport noted that she was clearly troubled by something. "I can tell by the uncharacteristically glum expression upon that spectacular face of yours, that this is not going to be pleasant. We've known each other too long. Let's have it."

"Nobby," she began. Her soft brown eyes levelled at him across the expanse of mahogany, leather and their years of history. "I have a very serious problem." She was searching for a place to start, to balance her obligations to her Service and Government with the great affection and trust she held for him. Honesty and respect had always been the foundation of their long lasting relationship, professionally and intimately. But could she tell him everything in this instance?

She got to her feet. Her knuckles white as she made fists and paced the room. She went to the window, staring out at nothing, gathering her thoughts, the fury she felt barely suppressed beneath her immaculately tailored Martin Grant dress. Violet stood, her full weight thrusting down on her heels, knees locked, shoulder blades rigid. Shallow breathing to her diaphragm, Ashcroft-James began.

"Recently we sent an agent, experienced man by the name of Lundt, to Malfajiri to keep an eye on a private military company called Chiltonford." "I know of Chiltonford," said Davenport. "What was the basis of your
concerns about them?"

"Absolutely nothing. But in the absence of formal British military assistance to the Malfajiri government in dealing with their civil war, Chiltonford were selected and therefore endorsed by our Foreign Office to be given a free hand - along with a blank cheque - to train the Malfajiri army with the subsidiary task of protecting British mining interests over there, which, as you know, are considerable.
In
the eyes of my political masters, the instability of President Namakobo's government and the emerging influence of the rebel leader, Colonel Baptiste, made it prudent to place an agent into Chiltonford to keep an eye on things."

"And?" The General lowered his most sceptical gaze at her.

"And," she continued sheepishly.
"If
the opportunity to deal with this Baptiste creature presented itself, then my agent was authorised to act." Ashcroft-James returned to her seat opposite Davenport.

"I see," Davenport said flatly. He understood the imperative of Governments to protect their investments. Assassination was always one of the fallback options. He topped up his coffee and remained silent as she continued.

"Everything was going to plan until a couple of months in, and my agent, Lundt, went missing without trace. His absence was totally out of character, and Chiltonford's management were at a loss to explain it. Obviously they have no idea he's one of mine. They simply reported the absence of one of their key team members
to
the Foreign Office." The Chief of SIS paused
to
take a sip of tea, before abruptly, and none too gently, thrusting the cup and saucer away and making a demand that startled Davenport. "Haven't you anything stronger?"

Davenport looked across at Violet. He could see that there was something burning away at her, but she wasn't letting on. Crossing to the salver containing three decanters, he poured neat whisky into two tumblers and returned to che table. Wordlessly he handed her a glass and repositioned himself in the wing-back opposite.

"As you can imagine, when SIS communication protocols for Lundt to report in came and went, we grew concerned. That said, and despite the concern, Chiltonford needed an urgent replacement to maintain their contractual commitments to the Malfajirian government. So, working with the Foreign Office, I authorised the deployment of a second agent, a new man, named Collins."

Ashcroft-James leaned down to retrieve a USB datastick from the tan handbag at her feet. She passed it across to Davenport.

"These images were sent by our embassy in Malfajiri. I received them this morning. I'm told that this is all that remains of him."

Less than a couple of days ago, Morgan had been sweltering under the tropical heat and humidity of Northern Australia in shorts and a t-shirt. But now he was here, in London, on a depressingly cold grey Monday morning in late January, already missing the Aussie summer he'd left behind. Catching his reflection in the window of a car as it eased onto Broadway from Scotland Yard's secure car park, Morgan realised that he was well overdue for a haircut, and wondered idly if the boss would notice. Morgan stood beneath the famous revolving sign outside New Scotland Yard. He was feeling anything but a so-called defender of the faith. He was bloody freezing, as was everybody else struggling along Broadway he guessed, including the lads on security duty at the entry into the Yard. Morgan's bones ached, and he felt he should be anywhere else but miserable bloody England. The wind and drizzle formed an uncompromising alliance to bombard him, so he kept his gloved hands buried deep within the pockets of his favourite old navy-blue peacoat, hunching his shoulders to fend off the chill. Underneath, he wore a black woolen roll-neck sweater
with jeans and well worn, but polished, RM Williams boots.

"Come on then young Maj or Morgan," came agruff, sudden demand from behind. Morgan turned to see his Chief, General Davenport approaching through the guard post. "You can buy me a whisky," volunteered the General with an avuncular smile, "and we can talk shop over lunch."

Davenport, tall and solidly built, was clad in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, bespoke a little 'off Saville Row, under a heavy charcoal overcoat. His salt and pepper hair and perfectly kept beard gave him a regal appearance and Morgan often thought that he looked like Prince Michael of Kent; although he'd never tell the General that.

"Morning, Sir." Morgan smiled and, removing a glove, shook Davenport's hand firmly before they set off along the sodden footpath, braced against the icy bite of the wind. "How are you?" enquired Morgan. "Well, I'm above ground and vertical. There's a lot to be said for that,"
commented General Davenport dryly.

One of those days, Morgan mused. "Where are we off to then? Around to The Sanctuary or shall we head down the Red Lion?"

"I fancy the Lion," replied Davenport. "I could do with the walk. Just been with Commissioner Hutton for the past two hours. The Yard, as usual, is a bloody madhouse."

"Something domestic, Sir?" asked Morgan.

"A little," Davenport replied evasively. "Let's say, he's owed me favours for years and I've called them in. I just dropped in to check on progress."

"How's the leg?" asked Morgan, as he strode along beside his boss. "This cold weather's no bloody help, I can tell you," he grumbled in
response. For almost 20 years he had lived with a piece of Iraqi shrapnel embedded within his right knee, the result of a near miss that had ended his career with the Special Air Service. A string of surgeons had been consulted over it and, despite the pain and endless irritation, the unanimous decision had been reached by the medicos that the shrapnel was best left where it was, rather than risking amputation of his leg. As a result, Davenport lived with the metal embedded in his knee and over the years, had developed a limp. On cold days, like today, the limp became pronounced and the General notoriously ill tempered. "You could do with a haircut, by the way. You were supposed to be out in Australia working. Not on a bloody holiday," growled the older man.

Morgan simply nodded with a grin in response, as the two of them strode past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. They crossed over into Whitehall just as Big Ben chimed twelve. The London Eye, or 'that bloody abomination', as the General routinely referred to it, looked on from across the Thames as they walked into the Red Lion.

To spare the General's knee, rather than going upstairs to the restaurant, they chose to order lunch at the bar. The Lion was sufficiently busy enough for them to discuss what they'd come to discuss, albeit guardedly, without fear of being overheard. Morgan bought drinks and Davenport found a ledge near a window looking out onto Whitehall. Under the watchful gaze of Lord Stanley's modestly sized portrait that hung above them, Davenport, half-standing, half-sitting against a stool, stretched his long legs out in the hope that they would thaw and give him some respite from the pain.

"So what's the score?" asked Morgan returning, handing over a glass of whisky to Davenport. He slipped onto a stool opposite his boss, sipping a pint of Guinness. "You haven't given much away so far."

"There's been a development while you were in Australia, a significant one and the reason I dragged you back here so quickly. You did very well out there, Alex. So, I'm going to throw you in the deep end."

'Im all ears," Morgan quipped. He had wondered at the rapid turnaround on that last assignment. The HMAS
Albany
had barely come alongside in Darwin, before he was recalled to London, leaving the Aussie navy to deal with the weapons haul from the
Marengo.
Whatever casualness the Director-General of INTREPID had been evincing evaporated as he drew in his outstretched legs and began formally briefing his agent.

"Two British SIS agents operating in Malfajiri recently disappeared. They were involved with a British private military company. An outfit called Chiltonford. You've heard of them?"

"I know them, Sir," said Morgan with a slight nod. "Good crew by all accounts."

"That's consistent with most views on them, mine included," Davenport said. "Britain has opted not
to
make any formal military commitment
to
Malfajiri, so the Foreign Office sanctioned Chiltonford
to
provide security and training support to the Malfajirian government. Training advisers, vehicle convoy escorts, protection of expats involved in the country's mining operations. Exactly the tasks they've conducted in other parts of the world for years, and still are. They have an exemplary record. SIS were supposed to be babysitting; keeping an eye on things." He held Morgan's eyes momentarily. "All of the expected tasks were apparently going along nicely until the first SIS agent disappeared, followed in reasonably quick succession by his replacement. Interestingly, their disappearances coincide exactly with Baptiste's anti-government movement gaining momentum over there."