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
