Suddenly one of the men barked out some instructions and began sweeping his arm round in a gesture that looked like he was urging them to search for something, or somebody; survivors perhaps?
It took no more than five minutes before they were back together in a small group. There was a huddled conversation and the one who appeared to be the leader began looking around again. Then he suddenly pointed towards the cave where David was watching, and David realised then that it was over; there was no way he could offer up any resistance to these men because he was outnumbered and, in a sense, defenceless. So he dropped the Kalashnikov to the ground and the bandolier and walked out of the cave with his hands in the air.
There were five men in the group, and as soon as they spotted David they broke into a run and came rushing across the rocks towards him. David stopped and let them come to him.
They were all wearing caftans, a traditional, hooded garment but no headgear. Each one had a large leather belt around his waist with a fearsome looking knife and sheath hanging from it. One of them spoke to David in English.
‘Ellis. What happened here?’
David remembered him although he had only seen once since he was taken from the hospital.
It was Abdul Khaliq.
David simply gestured towards the compound and the house and explained what happened. His explanation was succinct and left Abdul in no doubt that the attackers were intent on one thing: murder.
‘They didn’t find you?’
David shook his head. ‘They didn’t look. Unfortunately it wasn’t a rescue mission.’
Abdul considered this for a moment, not taking his eyes off David. Then he said, ‘You will help my men bury these people. We must cover them so the wolves and jackals cannot finish what they started during the night.’ He turned away and began walking off towards the grim scene that lay before him. Then he stopped and turned towards David.
‘They may not have come for you, my friend, but this may be the beginning of your freedom.’
And with that curious statement, he wheeled away and hurried towards the morbid task that awaited them.
Susan Ellis had been home from work little more than an hour when the phone rang. She lived on the ground floor of a Victorian house that had been converted into flats, and was in the kitchen at the rear of the house preparing her evening meal. She had no idea who could be calling her. She put the knife down that she had been using and wiped her hands on a paper kitchen towel, pulled off her apron and went through to her front room to answer the phone.
‘Susan Ellis.’
‘Good evening Susan, this is Marcus Blake.’
She frowned and did not recognise the name for a moment. Then she realised who it was. ‘Marcus Blake? How did you get my number?’
‘With high skill, extreme perseverance and a modicum of luck. Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘Well, I would prefer to speak to you face to face.’
Susan wasn’t keen on inviting a comparative stranger round to her home. ‘Can’t you tell me what it is you want to say over the phone?’
‘I could,’ he replied honestly, ‘but I have something I want you to see and I can’t exactly show you that over the phone.’
‘Oh, well why not try to explain what it is that you want to show me?’
Marcus sensed her extreme reluctance, but he was determined to push her until she relented.
‘I cannot do that, but what I can do is invite you out to dinner and we can talk. It will be in public and you can leave whenever you wish. How does that suit you?’
She found herself nodding. ‘Well, that is reasonable, but I was already preparing a meal for myself.’
‘It’s no fun dining alone, Susan. I know because I do it so often.’
‘Is this about my brother?’ she asked him. Susan felt a little lift in her spirit and her skin tingled in anticipation. It was a momentary thing and passed quite quickly.
‘Have dinner with me Susan; there’s something you need to know.’
‘Bad news?’
‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘Sorry, Susan, I didn’t mean that kind of news. Look,’ he urged her, ‘meet me at the Regent Restaurant. It’s at the bottom of your road. Eight o’clock. I’ll see you there.’
Marcus put the phone down and looked at his watch. One hour; plenty of time to get across to Clapham Common and wait for Susan to turn up, as he was sure she would.
James Purdy sat opposite Cavendish in an office in the House of Commons. He looked mortified as the security man spelled out the consequences of his predilection for young girls, particularly those who were brought into the country illegally.
‘You want me to resign, is that it?’ Purdy asked.
Cavendish shook his head. ‘That isn’t for me to say, Minister. But I’m sure you can see the problem; we have here a Minister of State knowingly consorting with illegal immigrants for reasons of sexual perversion. It’s clear that you are laying yourself open to blackmail, and that would, or could jeopardise the security of our nation.’
‘How did you get the bloody photographs?’ the minister demanded to know.
Cavendish shrugged. ‘Well, unless you want a detailed account of how we have been suspicious of you and what you’ve been up to for ages, I’m sure it doesn’t take brains to realise that we do have our ways and means. We usually succeed in the end.’
Purdy stood up, quite angry and obviously worried. ‘I could deny it all,’ he ranted. ‘Say I’ve been set up, the photos have been doctored. I’m a minister of the crown for God’s sake. And why on earth are MI6 involved in this? Aren’t you supposed to be looking after our overseas interests?’
‘Charity isn’t the only thing that begins at home, Minister,’ Cavendish reminded him. ‘Our overseas responsibilities begin here as well. Something as Secretary of State for International Development you seem to take very lightly.’
‘Damn it Cavendish,’ he shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk top. ‘What are you trying to do? A little harmless, private fun and you poke your bloody noses in.’ He stopped. Cavendish was holding up his hand.
‘Your harmless, private fun resulted in the death of one of those girls. She was found in a rubbish skip not fifty yards away from where you sodomised and raped her; you and your companions. So don’t talk to me about private, harmless fun, Minister. You are in deep, deep trouble and will go to prison for a very long time.’
Cavendish was getting angry and it was the last thing he wanted to do. He also wanted the minister to have a clear head and be given an opportunity to redeem himself by cooperating and agreeing to what it was Cavendish had in mind. He wished he’d been lying about the girl being found dead in a rubbish skip; for all the good that men like the Cabinet Minister do for those poor girls, and the life they put them into, they might just as well be dead before they were used and abused.
‘But there is a way out for you,’ he told him, ‘for your own peace of mind and for the security of our country.’
The Minister looked up expectantly, his brow furrowing into deep creases. ‘What are you talking about?’ He snapped the question out, his demeanour now very much like the cornered animal that he was, and no longer the urbane, cabinet minister that was seen so often in the debating chamber of the House.
Cavendish had no pity for him or his ilk. All he wished to do was get the truth out of the man and then rid the country of the vermin that he was. It galled him to offer the minister a way out.
‘First of all Minister, I want the names of the two men who were with you during your little bit of fun, as you so describe it.’
The minister shook his head vigorously. ‘Out of the question; I don’t even know them.’
Cavendish looked at his watch. ‘You can begin by telling lies if you wish,’ he said, looking up, ‘but eventually you will tell me what it is I want to know.’
The minister stretched his hands out across the table; his manner more compliant. ‘Look, it’s the truth; I do
