They cleared Thetford within twenty minutes or so and were soon heading up the A134, passing through the amusingly named Two Mile Bottom. Marcus had no idea where they were going, but he knew he would have to come up with something if he wanted to see the rest of the day out.
Suddenly Covington slowed and turned into a side road. About a mile or so later he pulled into a lay-by and stopped.
He then turned to Marcus and was about to say something when Marcus hit him.
Marcus knew there would almost certainly be a little preamble; something like ‘This is where you get off’, or ‘Get out of the car because I’m going to blow your brains out’. But whatever Marcus did, he had to make sure he did not give the man who called himself Covington an opportunity to kill him; because he knew that was the man’s intention.
Marcus hit him again and again, pounding his fist into the side of Covington’s head until the bogus lawyer sagged unconscious into the seat.
Marcus quickly removed his seat belt, reached forward and pressed the button to release the door locks and then looked out through the windows to see if there was anybody about.
A car drove by fairly quickly, rocking the Mercedes. Once that had gone, Marcus got out and went round to the driver’s side. He released Covington’s seat belt and pulled him out of the car. Then he checked the road again to make sure it was clear and lifted him on to his shoulder, back heeled the door shut, then carried him into the woods lining the side of the road.
Once clear of the road and out of sight, Marcus dropped Covington on to the ground and immediately searched through his pockets. He took his wallet and a Walther PPK hand gun. He left him there and went back to the Mercedes and settled himself into the car, switched on the ignition and started the motor. Then he glanced over at the trees where he had dumped Covington.
‘Sorry about this, Mister Covington,’ he shouted. ‘But I gotta get outta here!’
He powered the Merc away. Ten minutes later Marcus pulled up beside a public phone box in the village of Munford and phoned his father.
Sir Henry Blake answered the phone with little else on his mind other than what he and his wife Emily would be doing later in the day. It was one of the pleasantries of retirement, where one could make plans at one’s leisure. But there were times, naturally where circumstances tended to blunt even the most quiescent moments. And this was to be one.
‘Sir Henry Blake,’ he said as he pressed the phone to his ear.
‘Hallo Dad, Marcus here.’
Blake’s eyes lit up as they often did when his son called. ‘Marcus, my dear boy, your free.’
‘Yes, but there’s a problem,’ Marcus told his father. ‘The man who came to get me out claimed to be Covington, your lawyer.’
Blake nodded. ‘Yes, I sent him.’
‘It wasn’t your man. The guy who came here was an American, and he had no intention of letting me go free.’
‘What do you mean he had no intention of letting you go free? That’s the reason I sent him up there.’
‘Look Dad, I’m free, I’m ok, but I have to lie low for a while. I’ll explain later. But I think you need to check up on something.’
‘Marcus, you’re not making sense,’ Blake told him sternly. ‘What are you gabbling about?’
‘When did you speak to Covington?’ Marcus asked him.
‘Shortly after you rang, why?’
‘Well somehow, the Yanks intercepted Covington and sent one of their own men. And they could only have done that because they knew you had called him.’
‘What are you suggesting, Marcus?’ Blake had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
‘The Yanks must have a tap on your phone line; it’s the only way they could have known about Covington. I suggest you get in touch with Cavendish and nobody else. Tell him I’ve called and what has happened.’
‘I think this is preposterous,’ Blake replied strongly.
‘In that case Dad, phone your lawyer. I’ll be in touch.’
The line went dead and left Blake staring into space. He replaced the handset and flicked open a phone book which lay on the table beside the phone. He found the number of his lawyer and dialled it. It was picked up within seconds.
‘Cope’s legal services. How may I help you?’
‘Judy, this is Sir Henry Blake. Can you put me in touch with John Covington?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Henry, we have been trying to get in touch with Mister Covington on another matter, but he’s not answering his mobile. It’s most unusual for him not to answer. Perhaps he’s lost it, but we won’t know until he phones in. Is there something Mister Cope can help you with, Sir Henry?’
Blake didn’t answer for a few seconds; his mind was beginning to move into overdrive.
‘Ah, no, no, thank you Judy,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just ask Mister Covington to ring me as soon as you can. Thank you.’
He put the phone down and his heart sank. Blake’s gut feeling was that Covington would not be getting in touch with his office or anybody else for that matter.
Covington was almost certainly dead.
FOURTEEN
Danny Grebo had dumped the BMW in north London and walked through the streets until he came to an all- night taxi rank. Grebo’s knowledge of the city was scant so he simply asked the taxi driver to drop him off at Oxford Street. Once there, he made his way round to Grosvenor Square in sight of the American Embassy and located a public phone booth.
The call he had to make could mean a way out of the jam he had got himself into. Any other option simply didn’t exist. Grebo knew he would be indicted for murder and almost certainly extradited to America because he had killed a serving, American military policeman. It meant the electric chair and that just didn’t bear thinking about. He was hoping that the man he was about to ring could get him into the American Embassy in the first instance. This would give him a relatively safe haven, providing none of the American authorities knew he was there, until it could be decided which would be the best way to get him out of the country.
The ringing phone was answered fairly quickly.
‘John Deveraux.’
‘This is Grebo. Can you talk?’
There was no reply for a couple of seconds. Then, ‘I think so; Marjorie is in the shower. What do you want?’
‘You know about last night?’
‘I didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning, thanks to you. Of course I know about last night.’ Deveraux sounded terse.
‘I need a way out, Commodore. You’re the only one who can help me.’
‘And what makes you think I can help you?’
‘The Chapter can,’ Grebo answered desperately. ‘Get them to me; they can get me out.’
‘They may not want to, Danny. After all, you’ve messed up big style.’
‘They’re my only chance Commodore. You’ve got to help me.’
‘You should have thought of that before you murdered one of our own men.’
‘I didn’t plan it that way, I swear.’
‘Planned or not, Grebo you killed one of our serving airmen. I think The Chapter will probably want to wash its hands of you from now on.’
‘Don’t let them do that sir. I need help and I need it bad. I’ve made a lot of money for those guys, including you. They owe me.’
