to us in our war against the infidel.’ He stopped there and regarded David with a look that seemed to search deep into his soul. ‘I know you were working for British Intelligence at the Mission.’
David opened his mouth in surprise, but Abdul held his hand up.
‘Please do not try to deny it. Your work for The Chapter was simply a cover, but now that is no longer important. What is important now is how I can use you, and how we can secure your release.’
David waited until he believed he could say something. ‘You mean a hostage exchange, or something like that?’ he asked.
Abdul didn’t answer the question; he simply ignored it.
‘The men who attacked the compound were not soldiers.’ David frowned at that assertion. ‘They were mercenaries employed by the same group who attacked the Mission.’
‘What group?’ David asked immediately.
Abdul shook his head. ‘At the moment, that is not important. But I believe those men were being used by someone within British and American Intelligence to bring discredit on the Taliban.’
‘But you are not Taliban,’ David pointed out.
Abdul put his hand up. ‘That is not important; it was done for other reasons. Your people in the West will believe anything. But there was another reason behind the attack on our compound.’
David waited for an explanation but nothing came for a while. ‘What was the reason then?’ he asked eventually.
‘At the moment it isn’t necessary for you to know or even to understand the reasons why,’ Abdul told him. ‘But what you must understand is that I want you to do something for me that could bring you your freedom.’
David could think of nothing he could do, given the circumstances of his confinement that could help Abdul in any way. But he asked, naturally.
‘What can I do?’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘You wrote something, a long time ago. Remember?’
David thought back to when he had been taken from the hospital. One of Abdul’s men had given him a notebook and asked him to write down what had happened at the Mission. David needed time to bring himself to recall on paper exactly what he had seen and what had transpired. And when he had written just a couple of pages, the book had been taken away from him. He decided then it was the beginning of their mind games; deprivation: giving something and then taking it away.
While David was thinking, Abdul watched him carefully.
‘We took the book and removed a lot of the empty pages. Then we soiled it, made it looked as though you had written it while being desperately ill.’
‘Why did you do that?’ David asked, frowning.
Abdul smiled. ‘Pretence,’ he said, then he took an apple from the bowl of fruit that was on the table and bit into it. He carried on talking as he was chewing the apple.
‘I want you to write a letter to the man you served in British Intelligence. I will tell you what to write. But first I want to know how much you trusted him, and if you still trust him.’
David lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt some comfort in being able to do that in front of the man who could order his death as easily as ordering a Hookah pipe. It was an absurd notion, but it implied a degree of relative ease within himself.
‘How can I answer that honestly?’ he queried. ‘I was working for a man who held many secrets; someone who has worked in powerful positions in the military. He was my boss and I was his employee. Do your men trust you?’
‘We trust Allah, who knows everything.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Abdul. How can I say to you that I trust my boss when I have been your prisoner for…’ He stopped; it occurred to David that he wasn’t really sure just how long he had been in captivity. ‘How long have I been here?’
Abdul shrugged. ‘No matter, you will write the letter and then, one day you might be a free man.’ He stood up. ‘ Inshalla! ’
And with that he walked out of the room leaving David to wonder if this was to be more of the mind games.
Marcus found a newspaper shop and bought a packet of envelopes. Then he went looking for a photocopier, finding one in an internet cafe. He took the photograph of Cavendish from his wallet and copied it a few times. Then he disfigured the face of the minister and wrote the words ‘Covent Garden’ on the top of the picture. Beneath this he wrote the words: “ I will call mid-day for three days.” Then he slipped the copy into an envelope and wrote “ For the attention of Sir Giles Cavendish only ”.
Satisfied with what he had done, he retraced his footsteps to the Embankment and MI6 headquarters.
EIGHT
Three days after Marcus had delivered his envelope by hand; there was a reception at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. John Deveraux, the Military Attache caught up with Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo and parted him from an attractive, female journalist representing CNN. He led Grebo away to a reasonably quiet area in the large reception room.
‘I think it looks less obvious if we talk here rather than in my office, Chief,’ Deveraux told him. ‘But we do need to talk.’
Grebo smiled and tried to look as though he was simply indulging in pleasantries. ‘Yes, I know sir, but it depends what you want to talk about.’
‘Cavendish is getting too close,’ Deveraux admitted. ‘He freaked the English minister out.’
Grebo thought he detected a sense of strain in the attache’s voice. He hadn’t been involved in the assassination of the British minister, but was fairly confident that Deveraux had called the shots; it had been his decision.
‘I thought it was too public, whatever the reasons,’ Grebo told him. ‘The crap has really hit the fan now.’
Deveraux took a drink from a passing waiter, leaving his empty glass on a sideboard nearby. ‘The British are blaming Muslim terrorists.’
‘Very convenient,’ Grebo offered. ‘But why so sudden?’
‘We have a shipment due in. Cavendish wanted names; he had the minister over a barrel.’
Grebo frowned. ‘How come?’
So Deveraux told him. Grebo whistled softly through his teeth. ‘I thought the girls were makeweights; something to sweeten the pill for these perverts.’ He paused and sipped consciously at his champagne. ‘They lost one?’ he asked eventually, disbelief all over his face.
‘That’s not important; the girls mean nothing.’ He put on a smile for the benefit of whoever might be looking in their direction. ‘We’re sitting on a billion dollar operation here and those idiots can’t keep their sexual peccadilloes out of it. They could pull a couple of frigging whores out of the city and do it without dragging The Chapter into it.’
It was unusual for The Chapter to be named in any conversation between those men who headed up the organisation, unless there was a specific need for it. For that reason, Grebo realised that Deveraux’s action in ordering the assassination of the government minister smacked of a keenly felt worry about the organisation’s security.
‘How many were involved?’ Grebo asked him.
‘Three,’ Deveraux replied. ‘Fortunately, Cavendish was only interested in the Cabinet minister.’
‘As far as you know,’ Grebo put in.
‘As far as I know,’ Deveraux admitted and looked around the room, smiling at whoever was looking directly at him. He caught the Ambassador’s eye and regretted it immediately. He turned to Grebo.
‘Looks like we’ll be splitting up. Ring me later.’ He checked his watch. ‘About five this evening? Remember, we have to stop Cavendish.’ He raised his voice a little as the Ambassador came up beside them. ‘So, when is it you
