‘Preposterous,’ declared Butler. ‘We would know about it immediately. Our men out in Afghanistan are without question the most dependable and reliable.’
Cavendish looked at Butler, but before replying he stole a quick glance at the Prime Minister. Directing his eyes back to the Police Commissioner, he said, ‘Our soldiers in Afghanistan are underpaid, under- equipped and undermanned. They rely heavily on human intelligence in the field which comes from some Taliban commanders, when it suits them,’ he added, ‘and from local Afghan tribal chiefs. Our soldiers cannot be in several places at once, and they are often led to believe that the poppy field they destroyed a year ago is no longer producing when the fact is the farmer is still growing the poppies and the drug factories are making pure heroin.’
‘What you are implying, Cavendish,’ Faulkner said, ‘is that there are corrupt men at the top of the chain. Do you have any proof of this?’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘Unfortunately I cannot always deal in proof; it’s something that our department sees very little of. Even with facts, we often have to use them in trade-offs; tit for tat exchanges. Promises made by one party to another. Someone wants his name kept out of it so is willing to sell his soul. We can only stop this corrupt practice by getting at the heads of the chain and cutting them off. That is what we were trying to do at the American depot at Feltwell when the whole thing blew up in our faces. And I assure you gentlemen, it was no-one’s fault but mine.’
‘There’s no need to fall on your sword, Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister told him abruptly.
‘Why did this have to involve the Americans?’ Butler asked Cavendish.
‘Because the Americans are involved,’ he replied simply. ‘It’s really them who are calling the shots.’
‘What do you mean the Americans are calling the shots?’
‘They have the scope and the size to hide an operation like this within the parameters of their own, legitimate operations,’ Cavendish told him.
‘But you’ve no proof.’ It was a simply stated fact, and the Police Commissioner seemed confident now that Cavendish’s explanations were based largely on supposition and wishful thinking. ‘And they could only run a clandestine operation with the knowledge and connivance of some very, well placed men.’
‘Precisely.’ It was all Cavendish said because the Police Commissioner had simply reiterated what he had been trying to tell them all along.
The Commissioner realised what he had just implied and the expression on his face changed. It was like he finally understood the solution to a problem that had been dogging him for some time, only in this case it wasn’t a problem that he alone could solve.
‘Sir Giles,’ the Prime Minister said, breaking the slight impasse. ‘I am seeing the American Ambassador later today along with Commodore Deveraux, the Military Attache. I need something to tell them, but I also need something to ask them. If you cannot furnish me with something positive, it looks like they will be asking the questions and I will have to provide the answers.’
Cavendish shrugged his shoulders. ‘In that case, Prime Minister I can only ask you to tell them what you know.’
‘Which is precisely nothing without facts,’ the Prime Minister commented.
Cavendish nodded. ‘Exactly, but you could labour the point about Chief Master Sergeant Danvor Grebo going missing after wounding one of our police officers and shooting dead one of his own American comrades.’
‘I must say that’s hardly a senior rank to be considered as a man in high authority,’ Faulkner put in. ‘I understood from what you have been saying, Sir Giles that you were looking for men in high places.’
Cavendish turned to face Faulkner. ‘Chief Grebo is a logistics man. He has attained the highest, non- commissioned rank in the American Air Force. It gives him an element of power and control. Four nights ago Grebo shot and wounded one of my operatives. He is a dangerous man. He is also the cousin of Milan Janov; a man who we believe is heavily involved in drugs and people trafficking. The more we look into the connections between individuals here, the worse it becomes.’ He then spoke to the Prime Minister.
‘I would ask you, Prime Minister to be very circumspect during your meeting with the Ambassador and Commodore Deveraux.’
The Police Commissioner interrupted Cavendish. ‘You’re not suggesting the links with this Grebo go further up the chain of command, are you?’
‘I hope I’m wrong,’ Cavendish told him, ‘and I have no proof, but I know I’m right: the Americans are in it up to their necks.’
Marcus was lying on his back with his hands behind his head looking up at the ceiling. He had been doing some thinking, and he wasn’t convinced that he was cut out for intelligence work. He seemed to have a habit of attracting violence and being forced to dish it out, when all he really wanted was a quiet life. The events twelve hours earlier had taught him a salutary lesson: people like Danny Grebo and his associates were to be avoided at all costs. But then, he reasoned, the world is full of people like that, and they encroach on your life whether you invite them to or not. In his case, Marcus had to accept that he had been largely responsible for his own demise, and it was this that made him decide to split from Cavendish.
Marcus had reached that decision earlier, shortly after waking up in the holding cell in Thetford where they were keeping him. He had asked if he could make a phone call. The station officer had agreed, so Marcus phoned his father and asked for a lawyer to get down to the police station to get him out. He was sure there wouldn’t be a problem; not that he understood the law but he was fairly convinced the police couldn’t hold him without charge. He was sure the lawyer would post bail or whatever they do; get a magistrate or judge to sign some release papers. And bugger Cavendish, he thought resolutely, he could play his own silly games.
He had had a wash and cleaned his teeth; toiletries provided by the station sergeant, and had a fairly decent breakfast. Lunch passed by as well, and so far no- one had come to see Marcus about the events of the night before. It was strange but perhaps there was a conflict between departments, he decided, and neither one had won the argument. He was sure Cavendish would have him out of the nick in two seconds, and he was equally sure that a normal police investigation would have him remanded for some time. So all he could do was wait.
With nothing to do, Marcus began to think again of his decision to split from Cavendish. He also thought of Susan and her brother, David. Susan wanted nothing more than to see her brother free. When she had come to Marcus she only wondered if David was still alive. Now she knew because she had received a letter from him. That meant a line had been opened between David and Susan by whoever was keeping David prisoner.
Marcus also began to think about Grebo and the whole American connection. Just how deep, he wondered were the American military involved. Afghanistan was not really Britain’s bag; more the Yanks. The kind of organisation Grebo was running, if he was running it, had to have some powerful backers. How else could Grebo make use of a bonded warehouse right under the noses of the American military?
Marcus was reconsidering his options when he heard footsteps in the passageway. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up as a police sergeant, accompanied by a civilian appeared at the door of his cell.
‘Time to go, Blake,’ the sergeant sang out as he rattled the keys in the lock.
Marcus jumped to his feet and stepped through the open door. He presumed it was the lawyer with the sergeant although he didn’t recognise him.
‘Hallo Marcus, I’m Covington. Your father sent me to get you out of here.’
Marcus shook the lawyer’s hand thinking as he did that there was something odd in the way the lawyer had said ‘out of here’. It was more like ‘outta here’. He put it to the back of his mind and followed the lawyer to the desk where he had his personal effects returned and his release papers were signed.
Marcus followed Covington out to the car park towards a black Mercedes parked in a visitor’s slot. Covington aimed the key fob at it and the hazard lights on the car flashed several times as the door locks were released.
Covington turned to Marcus and smiled, gesturing to the passenger door on the far side. Marcus did as he was bid and climbed into the soft leather upholstery. Covington settled himself into the driver’s seat and gunned the motor into life.
Reversing out of the parking slot, Covington swung the wheel effortlessly. Marcus immediately felt a familiar sensation as adrenalin began pumping into his system.
‘Where are we going?’ Marcus asked him.
Covington turned and looked at Marcus. ‘We’re going to meet your father,’ he told him. He accelerated out of the car park and into the main high street. As he did, Covington reached forward and pressed a button on the dash. Marcus heard the sound of the door locks closing.
