‘And they have tried to kill me,’ Marcus mentioned.
Covington almost smiled. ‘Yes, you annoy them, and they spoil your day anyway, so both of you had better watch out.’
For the moment, Marcus failed to see the rejoinder. He was thinking instead of why he was this far in.
‘Is there going to be any end to this, Sir Giles?’ he asked.
Cavendish nodded firmly. ‘Mark my words, Marcus; it will end. One way or the other,’ he added ominously.
Milan Janov flew into London and waltzed through Immigration at Heathrow with his false passport. He was met by an inconsequential looking youth and immediately taken by car to an address in north London. He was dropped off at the house with his overnight bag and left standing at the front door of the house as the car disappeared into the late evening.
Janov waited no more than a few moments before the door was opened and he was taken into a room at the rear of the house. Waiting there for him was Randy Hudson, CIA Station Chief in Britain.
Janov was not used to travelling without minders but his instructions had been explicit, and only by travelling under an assumed name and with a false passport could he be sure of getting into Britain without the security people showing an interest in him and sending him packing.
A meal had been prepared for him, which he ate while discussing events with Hudson.
‘Have you found the people who murdered my cousin?’ Janov asked through a mouthful of food.
‘We’ve no idea who killed your cousin,’ Hudson lied, shaking his head. ‘But we will eventually, I’m sure.’
‘What happened to the arms shipment?’ Janov asked, shovelling another mouthful in. ‘My man has told me that it did not arrive at Felixstowe docks as expected. If I do not get the goods, I cannot do business.’
Hudson explained the predicament that faced the organisation. ‘It was not of our choosing. And I have to say that your cousin acted like a damn fool.’
Janov stopped eating immediately and looked across the table with venom in his eyes. Then he shrugged and carried on eating.
‘He was a damn fool to get himself killed,’ he spluttered through a mouthful of food. ‘But it could happen to any one of us; it is a dangerous business. Now, what about the arms shipment?’
‘There will be no shipment,’ Hudson told him. ‘The United States Air Force has placed the warehouse off limits until their investigation is complete.’
‘Are the goods still in the warehouse?’ Janov asked him.
‘Yes, but they had been sealed by the Customs and Excise at the docks, and for that reason the Air Force investigators have no reason to want to see into them. Yet, he added.’
‘That is good.’ He shoved his plate aside. ‘So what is the reason given for the shooting at the warehouse?’
‘No reason is being given,’ Hudson told him. ‘But the real reason is that a security agent had been following your cousin, and this caused him a problem.’
‘Danny?’
Hudson nodded. ‘Yes.’
Janov gave this some thought for a while. Then he got up from the table and walked over to a worktop and picked up a bottle of Slivovic, a plum brandy that Hudson knew Janov was partial to. He poured a generous measure into a glass and drank it down. Then he poured another and came back to the table.
‘I want another team put in to take care of Abdul,’ he told Hudson.
The CIA man was surprised by Janov’s sudden request. ‘Why couldn’t you take care of him yourself?’ he asked reasonably.
Janov swirled a mouthful of Slivovic around his gums before swallowing the brandy. ‘It has to look like an American or British action,’ he told Hudson. ‘It is the only way I can persuade the farmers that I am not a threat to them. If I kill Abdul, they will know and this will scare them off; it will drive them into the arms of the Taliban.’ He finished his brandy. ‘And I’m sure the organisation would not want that.’
‘I will need to talk to someone,’ Hudson warned him. ‘It isn’t something I can do at the drop of a hat. And it costs.’
Janov dipped his head sharply. ‘I will pay.’
Hudson looked impressed; it meant that Janov saw the financing of a hit team to take out Abdul Khaliq was a good investment.
‘The Chapter will still have to authorise it,’ Hudson told him.
‘They are good businessmen,’ Janov replied. ‘They understand profit and loss, and who is making too much profit. They will authorise it.’
‘In that case,’ Hudson said, getting to his feet, ‘I will make a few phone calls and see you back here tomorrow. If you want anything, one of my men will be here until you leave. But remember; the operation has been closed down until further notice. Goodnight Janov.’
After Hudson had left the house, Janov had a shower and got into a change of clothes. He then asked Hudson’s man to order a taxi. When it arrived he asked the driver to take him to a club in West London.
The club was a popular meeting place for Slovaks and other Eastern Europeans. There were other clubs scattered around and the air was heavy with the tortured vowel sounds of a mixture of mid European languages. It was one of Janov’s favourite places whenever he visited London; it was here at this particular club where some of the girls that the organisation provided could be found. Janov’s particular passion was for the young, Pakistani girls provided unwittingly by the Mission in Jalalabad.
But before entering the club, Janov found a phone box and made a call. Then he walked back to the club entrance and introduced himself to one of the security guards who took Janov inside and handed him over to another member of the staff.
The call Janov had made was to a member of the organisation who he knew would call the club and ask them to let Janov in.
Janov stepped inside and looked around at the decor that seemed to swamp the interior. It was a mix of red velvet, draped curtains, cord edged sofas and chairs. Heavy, dark tables each with a small lampshade in the centre. The dance floor was carpet free and covered in parquet wood. Screens hid the toilet doors and one other door that led to the rooms upstairs.
He was taken to a small, unoccupied corner table, which he guessed had been cleared for him and asked what he would like to drink. He ordered a Pilsner Urquell; the most widely exported Czech beer and sat back to enjoy the music, the dancing and to think of what he might do later with one of the girls in the upper rooms.
There was an unmistakeable hint of cannabis smoke in the air, which helped to relax Janov. He finished his pilsner and ordered another, checked his watch and wondered how long he would have to wait until the man who he had phoned showed up. Although the CIA chief told Janov he would need to get authorisation from The Chapter to send a small team into Afghanistan to take out Abdul, Janov knew that this man would almost certainly lead it.
The double doors on the opposite side of the club opened and the man Janov had been phoned came in. He spoke to a security guard who pointed across the floor to Janov. The man nodded his head and walked over to Janov’s table. Janov stood up and shook his hand
‘Hallo Janov.’
Janov smiled warmly. ‘Greetings Rafiq, my friend, it is so good to see you.’
It was Maggot.
Cavendish sat in the darkened room watching the screen in front of him. He was looking at a film recording of the CIA chief, Hudson meeting with the SOCA chief, Faulkner. They were sitting in the beer garden of the riverside pub where they had met the day before. The camera used to film them had been positioned on the other side of the river, using a high powered, telescopic lens.
Despite the quality of the camera and the reasonable conditions in which the two men had been filmed, the pictures were slightly grainy, and for the man sitting with Cavendish, a little tricky to follow. He was a lip reader, and Cavendish had called him in to interpret what the two men had been talking about.
They had watched the footage once already and were now about to go through it again. One of the problems
