‘Nobody owes you anything, Grebo. You’re the one who has come unstuck; nobody else. And why should they owe you?’
Grebo could feel the sweat gathering round his neck. It was like a noose. ‘If I get picked up, the whole organisation could go to the wall. I know the names, places, everything. How long do you think it would take them to get all of that out of me? I know about rendition, commodore, and it ain’t nice.’
He listened for an answer and could hear the sound of Deveraux’s breathing coming down the phone line. Eventually the commodore spoke.
‘Very well, Grebo, I’ll see what I can do. Call my office at ten o’clock. I will give you an address in London. That’s all I can offer at the moment.’
‘Thank you sir, thank you.’ Grebo felt his whole body begin to shake in relief. ‘Ten o’clock.’
He put the phone down and stepped out of the phone booth. It was still early and he wondered what he could do to fill in the next few hours. Ordinarily he would have drawn some money out of an ATM machine and bought himself a breakfast and maybe a wash and brush. Trouble was, though, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to use his ATM card in case the police were looking out for any transactions he might make so that they could pinpoint his location. He still had a few pounds in his wallet so he decided instead to wander around the department stores in Oxford Street, grab a coffee and a donut (he had enough money for that), and make the call at ten o’clock.
When Grebo made the call, he was given an address in Ealing Broadway. He knew he could get there by tube and using the ATM machine for the fare money wasn’t too big a risk because the police would never know where he was going if indeed they did pick up the transaction.
Grebo arrived at the address he was given about ninety minutes later. The road was a typical pre-war residential area. Fairly run down now, but probably a very up market neighbourhood in its heyday. Grebo didn’t bother to knock at the front door; he simply turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He waited for a moment and then called out. A voice answered.
‘Hi, Danny, come through to the kitchen.’
Grebo walked down the passageway towards the back of the house. He reached the door that he believed would open on to the kitchen. It was partly closed. Gingerly he pushed the door and it swung open. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at first, but the entire kitchen was covered in plastic sheeting. For a brief moment he thought someone was in the process of decorating.
Then he felt a hand push him in the back. The barrel of the gun came up on to the back of his head and Grebo was dead before he hit the deck.
James Faulkner and Randolph Hudson were enjoying a beer together at a riverside pub overlooking the River Thames. It wasn’t unusual for the two men in their capacity as security chiefs to share some interdepartmental gossip and swop detail on any joint investigation their relative departments might be undertaking. But this time their conversation had little to do with national security, British or American; it was to do with the disappearance of Marcus Blake and the demise of Danny Grebo.
‘Grebo was a liability anyway,’ Faulkner was saying, ‘such a pity really because he was important to The Chapter.’
‘We had no choice, James,’ Hudson said. ‘Once he’d told Deveraux that he would probably crack and spill the beans.’ He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.
‘At least he was honest,’ Faulkner observed. ‘Too honest for his own good.’ He lifted his beer and took a mouthful. A river cruise boat went by and Faulkner looked down at the tourists with their cameras and colourful outfits. ‘Poor buggers don’t know the half of it,’ he said, putting his glass down. ‘So how are you going to fill the gap left by Grebo?’ he asked the CIA chief.
Hudson reflected on that for a while. ‘It will be difficult, but not impossible. We have to be prepared for people dropping out, so I’m sure we’ll cope.’
‘It shows how quickly a plan can fall to pieces,’ Faulkner lamented. ‘I haven’t been able to figure out where this man Blake fits in, but I think he was largely responsible that things fell apart so rapidly.’
‘Who is he anyway?’ Hudson asked the SOCA chief. ‘We sent a specialist to deal with him but he gave our man the slip.’
Faulkner arched his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, I’ve spoken to Cavendish; asked him if Blake was working for him or doing a bit of freelancing.’
Hudson laughed. ‘Some freelancer; he seems quite a guy.’
Faulkner conceded. ‘Yes, but we’ve underestimated him. If he shows up again we’ll have to make sure we finish the job this time.’
‘Well we know he phoned his father. He was clever enough to realise there was a tap on the old man’s line.’
Faulkner nodded. ‘It’s off now; too bloody risky. His old man has some clout in the city; could cause us some problems.’ He put his hand up and smiled. Hudson looked like he was about to make a suggestion. ‘No, I don’t want it taken care of,’ Faulkner told him. ‘Sir Henry Blake is untouchable, OK?’
Hudson laughed a little too and lifted his beer, and to all the world they were just a couple of guys enjoying a quiet lunch time drink, not two of the most dangerous men in Britain.
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Andrew Butler did not normally bother too much with crimes committed within the London area that would normally be dealt with by his very able, senior officers. From his lofty position, his daily round was often briefings with politicians, leading journalists, policy groups and often Chief Constables from other divisions. But at the early morning brief with his own senior officers, one name had been mentioned that had drawn his attention away from more administrative matters and focussed it on the recent events that had drawn him into the world of Sir Giles Cavendish. And that name was Blake.
After the meeting he asked his secretary to contact Cavendish, wherever he may be and ask him to phone. It was late that afternoon when Cavendish rang. The Commissioner’s secretary put the call through to Butler.
‘Good afternoon Commissioner, Sir Giles Cavendish here.’
‘Hallo Sir Giles, good of you to call. Something has come up that will probably interest you. It’s not part of your remit, I would think, but I am sure you will want to be kept informed.’
‘Thank you, Andrew.’
‘A body has turned up in a public toilet in one of the main underground stations. It has been identified as a lawyer by the name of Covington. He happens to be Sir Henry Blake’s lawyer. The time of death has been put at about ten thirty yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon a lawyer by the name of Covington presented release papers at Thetford police station and had Marcus Blake released, four hours after the real Covington was murdered. I’ll keep you informed of any developments in the case, Sir Giles, but my division superintendent will obviously want to keep this in house. If there is any proven link to your investigation, he will almost certainly prefer to hand it on to SOCA. I’m sure Faulkner will want to be kept informed too.’
In his office, Cavendish mouthed an obscenity. Then he composed himself and put a request to the Police Chief.
‘Commissioner, would you try to keep this out of the hands of SOCA? For the time being at least?’
‘Would you like to tell me why, Sir Giles?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t; not yet anyway. And if I did, it would be in private; not over the phone. I hope you’ll understand.’
‘I will do my best,’ Butler promised, ‘but if the superintendent feels he wants to pass this on, I will try to hold it up for forty eight hours.’
‘Thank you Andrew. I’m sure we’ll talk again.’ He put the phone down.
Cavendish was reluctant to have SOCA involved because of something Faulkner had said during the meeting with the Prime Minister. On its own it wasn’t incriminating, but it managed to ring an alarm bell in Cavendish’s mind, and that was all that was needed in his murky world of secret intelligence.
Marcus left the Mercedes at the truck stop where he had met up with the two policemen, Blake and Whelan. He then drove the Mondeo that Cavendish had provided and motored back to London. He didn’t go back to his own flat, but found a three star hotel and booked in there for the night. The following morning he put together a plan
