Defender (6 page)

"If you scroll through, you'll find what was left of Sergeant Collins.

Be prepared, Alex. It's not pretty. Not pretty at all." Davenport waited until Morgan had obviously arrived at the images. "Confirmed by DNA analysis. He'd been tortured. What was left of him turned up in a plastic garbage bag that was unceremoniously hurled into the front yard of the British Consul's residence in Cullentown."

"Christ," Morgan whispered, keeping the BlackBerry cupped in his hand, close to his body. His face turned to granite. His right hand tightened into a fist that became tighter with each monstrous image. He felt a deep physical reaction to the photographs of his dead friend, and an irrepressible revulsion towards those who had done this. Morgan's heart rate rose, and the muscles of his entire body tightened like wire cable. Slowly, reluctantly, he rolled his thumb over the trackball, advancing through the gruesome pictures, one by one.

"Forensics back here in England," Davenport continued, "found evidence of human and canine teeth impressions along the bones and some areas of the flesh that weren't burned."

At that, Morgan looked up sharply at his Chief and then reflexively scrutinised the room. Taking in the collection of suits and tourists, he was hit by a flash of repugnance toward everybody around them. After a time, he exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand across his face, shaking off the melancholy he was occasionally disposed to. The bits and pieces of what had once been Sean Collins, late of the Parachute Regiment and Special Air Service, reflected in Morgan's green eyes from the tiny screen of the BlackBerry. This man had been one of Morgan's exclusive fraternity, a fellow operator, doing a job similar to Morgan's, and driven by the same motivations. Above all, Sean was, and would always remain, a friend and brother.

"What do you need me to do?" Morgan asked, his tone flat and steely. "A coup d'etat is imminent, Alex," Davenport began, 'I'm of the opinion that there are people within the British establishment intimately involved and who know more than they're letting on. There may not be another chance like this. I'm certain our involvement will lead us to this consortium which has been moving weapons around the globe for years - Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Sierra Leone, Iraq, Afghanistan - the modus operandi and scale of their operation is becoming a trademark. They are a scourge, with absolutely no regard for the innocent victims of their profiteering. Malfajiri is just one of their markets, and Chiltonford, most likely, just one of their outlets. We know that the weapons you found on that trawler were from the US military supply system in Iraq, bound for Baptiste's rebels. No doubt, word of our interest in the
Marengo
was leaked, so the incriminating cargo was offloaded. Whichever way this goes, according to our charter, they're my problem. Lundt is missing in action and Collins was murdered because he was forced to show his hand too soon. That means these people, whoever they are, know they're being watched. We're running out of time and I have to take a gamble - even if it does involve making a deal with the devil." His face remained grave. "So, I'm sending you in there to take Collins' place."

"Arena, would you remain behind for a moment?" came the request from across the room.

"Yes, of course."

The two waited for the others to leave, and returned to their seats as the door closed with a heavy echo along the corridor outside. Abraham Lawrence Johnson, the Acting Director-General of the Foreign Office's Political Directorate, moved back behind the ornate Georgian desk he so coveted. Arena Halls, the Assistant Chief-of-Staff to the actual Director General, returned to the chair she had previously occupied, opposite Johnson. She absentmindedly pushed a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. Her crystal-blue eyes studied Johnson carefully. What was this all about?

"I recently had dinner with a singularly intriguing fellow," Johnson began. "Chap named Davenport. 'Nobby' Davenport."

"Major General Davenport?" "That's right."

"Commanding an SAS Squadron in the first Gulf War when he was injured, if I recall?"

"So I believe. Terrible thing. I understand that when he was told he'd never serve operationally again, he went straight on to read law at Cambridge, transferred to the Legal Corps and never looked back."

"Retired as the Director-General of Army Legal Services," Arena Halls added. She felt compelled on more than just this occasion to remind Johnson that she was not only familiar with
his
history, but those of other senior people around Whitehall. She'd developed a way of carrying it off without sounding impertinent. Besides, it was her job to know such things. That said, she did it because she knew it nettled him.

Arena's loyalties remained firmly with her actual Director-General, Mr. William Evans, CBE, LVO. However, she'd been forced to familiarise herself with Johnson's CV when Mr. Evans had fallen suddenly ill, and Johnson, far too eagerly she recalled, had leapt from his position as Director of International Security and into the Political Directorate's top job - temporarily - although it had been six months already, and the cancer that had so arbitrarily dug its claws into Mr. Evans was showing little sign of remission. There was little hope that he would ever be well enough to resume his responsibilities. That didn't seem
to
be of any concern to Abraham Johnson, which only strengthened Arena's resolve to remain the eyes and ears of her DG, in readiness for the day when he would, she hoped, return.

The only daughter of her American father and British mother, Arena Halls had travelled the world with her parents. Her father's career as an expert hydraulics engineer and her mother's relief work in struggling communities abroad, along with an Oxford education, had provided Arena with an upbringing that had prepared her perfectly for a career in the Foreign Office, and she had risen to prominence within a relatively short space of time with, most importantly, her reputation well and truly intact. On this she had taken a leaf from the pages of the successful women around her, whom she admired. Loyalty and career first and, very definitely, love last. She had been 'spotted' by Director-General Evans and immediately appointed as the right hand to his Chief-of-Staff. When the Chief-of-Staff was away, as was the case now, Halls stepped up. It was a role that some saw as a responsibility beyond her 26 years - but her sagacity, intellect and an ability
to
recall even the most seemingly insignificant facts, were fast becoming lore around the corridors of the Foreign Office. She was a classic polymath, one of the DG's select inner sanctum - Evans's 'Golden Girl'. The ensuing weeks of Evans's protracted absence, had seen Johnson carry out a coup. Evans's key people had been found other duties and Johnson had begun the solicitous task of establishing his own cabinet. Halls knew she'd been kept around merely as window dressing
to
appease any suggestion that Evans's team had been completely cleared out. Continuing on her recitation of facts, the Assistant Chief-of-Staff went on, her eyes slightly narrowed as the facts came to her. "Served in the New Zealand Army before moving
to
England
to
join the Parachute Regiment. Decorated in Northern Ireland with the Para's and later in the Gulf with the SAS. And, despite his injuries, went on
to
serve as a legal officer in Cambodia and Bosnia. A recognised authority on terrorism, rules of engagement, human rights and international humanitarian law. CBE, DSO, MC. Yes, I think that's it."

"Correct again, Arena. Very good. An outstanding chap indeed," Johnson added with a pained smile. There was a moment of silence as he gathered his thoughts. "He's been seconded to INTERPOL recently. Heads up a new area concerned with terrorism. Very secret."

"Yes," she offered boldly. "INTREPID. I've received the brief."

"Not much gets past you, does it now," Johnson said. "Yes, indeed. Terrorists, their networks, weapons of mass destruction, illegal arms, the slave trade and illicit narcotics are amongst their targets. He has the great luxury of being able to hand-pick his people from anywhere in the world. These INTREPID agents are part policeman, part soldier, part spy - or so they say."

"I understand the General's known
to
run it old school, Sir. Sends his agents out with the maxim 'live by your wits'. He's not keen on modern gadgets, or technology in the field," Halls added. She was aware of Davenport's appointment and intrigued by the mystique surrounding him and his 'Defenders of the Faith', as they'd become known in select circles. "No fan of the modern 'techno-spooks', as he calls them."

"Quite right. Chalk that up to his colonial roots. Prides himself on choosing the types who could hold their own in a bar brawl, as easily as attend a formal occasion at the Palace." Johnson added disdainfully. "Anyway, he has raised some rather disturbing matters regarding Malfajiri, and as we've just discussed, the President of that country has declared a state of emergency and will arrive in London shortly
to
personally request Her Majesty's help. We expect his government to fall at any time."

"Yes," she said.

"General Davenport expressed a most grave concern over an issue involving arms smuggling. Specifically a major operation that the latest INTERPOL intelligence suggests is connected
to
a British private military company operating in Malfajiri." Halls noted a somewhat furtive glance from Johnson. She remained silent. "There's more. INTERPOL believes that whoever is behind this gunrunning business has been secretly supplying the rebels in that country wth their arms via a source within the American military in Iraq - arms that are being used against the democratically elected government of Malfajiri. This is a company, I might add, to which the Foreign Office, on behalf of Her Majesty's Government, has given its full endorsement."

"I see." Halls moved uncomfortably in her chair. "And is the General suggesting that somebody in the Foreign Office is implicated?"

"He's not sure," Johnson replied. There was a long pause. "But the mere suggestion of complicity by the Foreign Office, or any branch of the Government for that matter, would be of immeasurable damage to Great Britain."

"The timing couldn't be worse," said Halls.

"Exactly, especially with President Namakobo's visit to Britain imminent, and this renegade, Baptiste, looking for the first opportunity to assassinate him. The fact that Baptiste is part of this al-Qaeda-linked extremist alliance operating throughout West Africa isn't exactly comforting. Of course, it's impossible to know what any of these revolutionaries are these days: Muslim, Communist ... Labor!" He tossed her a flicker of a smile, a rare occurrence. "Fanatics take their support anywhere they can get it, from whomsoever may provide the funds. In the old days, it was the Soviet Union," Johnson added pensively. "According to Davenport, this alliance has set into play a campaign to topple failing states in Africa and the Pacific, establishing terrorist havens as they go. The whole thing reeks of the old communist push through Africa and South-East Asia in the fifties and sixties." Johnson paused for a moment. "And, if these reports are true, Britain is bloody well helping them to do it!" he exclaimed, leaving his chair to pace the room. "The British people have little stomach left for the war on terror, Miss Halls. They're tired. Far too many lives have been lost already, at home and abroad. Citizens and soldiers. I would go as far as to say that this could even bring down our Government."

'I'm afraid I have
to
agree with you. Is the Secret Intelligence Service aware of all this?"

"Oh yes," he replied testily. "They have known for some time. The Chief of SIS discussed it with Davenport personally. It seems Britain has already had a crack at getting to the bottom of it."

"And?"

"And failed."

"So, what happens now, Sir?"

"Well," replied Johnson after a few moments, returning to his seat. "That's where you come in."

"Me?"

"Yes, if you're up for it?" He gave her a conspiratorial grin.

"Well... of course," she replied warily. "But, what can I do?" "Davenport came to me as a trusted colleague. He smells a rat within 
those branches of government already involved and needs our help." "Is he suggesting this is a mole hunt? Within the Foreign Office?"

Johnson's grave expression answered her. Arena took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Davenport's going to send a man into the middle of this private military company and he needs an experienced analyst - an ally on the ground for his man. You'd be reporting directly to me, of course, operating behind-the-scenes - trawling through books, files, personnel records and so on. Davenport's man cannot know who you are. The mere hint of collusion could give you both away. Do you understand?"

"Well, yes. Of course."

"Very good. This man recently returned from a mission in Australia. He received his briefing from Davenport earlier today. You're to leave him to deal with the operational matters," Johnson instructed.

Arena's heart was racing. This was completely unexpected, the reality of
it
began to dawn on her. She dreaded to ask, but already knew the answer. "Where?"

"Malfajiri." He fixed his eyes on her across the expanse of the broad desk. "So, you'd better get organised. You're on the next UN flight out of Gatwick tomorrow."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let's come to an understanding.
If
I have to stop suddenly, any loose items that you may have lying around instantly become projectiles. They will fly around the cabin at great speed and they will hurt people. So, it's your job to make sure that you secure your gear.
If
you don't and it hurts someone, then I'll hurt you. That's my job."