TWENTY
Susan carefully composed the text message using cryptic language that she hoped Cavendish would understand. When she was satisfied that she had written the text out correctly on a scrap of paper, she punched the letters into her mobile phone and held her finger over the ‘send’ button.
‘You promise we will see David?’ she asked Abdul again.
Abdul nodded but said nothing. Marcus thought the man looked quite nervous.
‘It’s done,’ Susan said, breathing out sharply and lifting her finger off the key. She looked guardedly at Marcus. ‘All we can do now is wait.’
Abdul leaned on the desk and pushed himself upright, shoving the chair back with his legs. It scraped noisily on the bare floor.
‘When we receive the reply I want, I will take you to see your brother.’ He walked round from behind the desk. ‘Now we must see about getting some sleep.’
He left Marcus and Susan sitting together in the room. They said nothing for a while. Marcus yawned which made Susan do the same thing. They were both very tired. It was past midnight and the talking had gone on for such a long time, neither of them had been aware of their tiredness creeping up on them.
When Abdul came back he motioned them to follow him. He took them both along the corridor to an open door. He stood there and pointed into the room.
‘You will sleep here,’ he told them. ‘Keep your door shut. If you need anything urgently, there is a nun sleeping in that room there.’ He pointed along the corridor to a closed door.
‘Where will you be sleeping, Abdul?’ Marcus asked.
Abdul smiled. ‘I won’t be far away.’ He put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and bowed his head. ‘May the one, true God be with us all tonight. Salaam.’
When Abdul had gone, Susan and Marcus looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished. There was a single bed and a very small table on which a jug and bowl were standing. It looked like the room was almost certainly intended for a nun because of the crucifix tacked to the wall above the bed and the complete lack of character in the room.
Susan and Marcus exchanged glances. She could see the unasked question in Marcus’s face and put her hand on his arm.
‘Marcus,’ she said softly, a tremor in her voice. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, but I don’t want to be left alone tonight.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘You won’t be; I’ll be sleeping on the floor beside you,’ he told her.
Susan gripped his hand tightly. ‘No, Marcus, you don’t understand. I’m scared and I need you to be close.’
She then pulled Marcus towards the bed and laid on it. She looked up at him and turned to face the wall. He laid full length behind her, then put his arm around her and slipped it beneath her blouse. He felt her stiffen and put her hand over his. Then she relaxed and he moved his hand over her breast, and squeezed it gently.
Susan moved her hand and placed it over the top of Marcus’s. She sighed and breathed in deeply. For a brief moment, both of them thought of nothing else but each other. But the truth was, neither of them felt safe.
Cavendish watched the Military Policeman leave his room with Lieutenant McCain. They had questioned him about the unprovoked attack the previous evening, but offered no clues as to why it took place. The MP suggested lamely that because of the number of people on the base, it was possible that one or two criminal elements on the base may have been attempting to mug him and been scared off.
Cavendish was quite happy to go along with that, but didn’t believe it for one minute. He said nothing of his fears to either of them, and they were happy to record the incident as an unprovoked attack by person or persons unknown.
It was as they were leaving the room that he found himself staring at the back of the MP. The uniform the man was wearing was common enough, but it took Cavendish’s mind back to the attack on Marcus and the two policemen at the bonded warehouse at Feltwell. It wasn’t the police uniform so much as the events and the personnel surrounding it. Everybody seemed to get in on the act afterwards, including the CIA.
And that was when it struck him; like a sudden realisation that he had interpreted that vital clue in a complicated crossword puzzle. Except that this was no crossword; it was a deadly game of murder.
The civilian he saw coming out of the main entrance of the Base Headquarters with an American Officer was Randy Hudson, the expelled Station CIA chief in England.
Cavendish’s heart sank as it dawned on him that The Chapter must have very powerful allies within the military to be able to send Hudson out to Afghanistan, without any sanctions, where he would be at the heart of the sinister work the organisation carried out.
Hudson should have been languishing in a police cell in America right now, awaiting charges of conspiracy, drugs and arms smuggling, and most other crimes that would send him to the electric chair, or at least many years on death row hoping he would beat the death penalty.
Hudson must have seen him; it was the only explanation Cavendish could think of. He was attacked last night to stop him; nothing else. He knew then that his own life was in jeopardy if Hudson learned that he had not succumbed to the attack, but in fact was recovering in the Base hospital.
He threw the covers from his bed and swung his legs round, sitting up at the same time. He was wearing a standard issue, hospital gown, which barely covered his backside as he stood up and went in search of his clothes.
As he reached into the slim, tall locker beside his bed, he heard his mobile phone ringing and vibrating. He put his hands into the pocket of his trousers which were hanging up and pulled the phone out. A text message had come through from MI6 in London. The message had been sent in ‘clear’, so Cavendish read the actual letters that Susan had entered; there was no code.
Five minutes later and Cavendish walked out of the Base hospital knowing that the next phase of the game had shifted; it had now become critical.
Shortly after Cavendish had read the text message from Susan, the CIA liaison officer at Khost base punched in a selection of numbers on his desk phone. He only waited a few seconds when he heard the voice of Randolph Hudson on the line.
‘Sir, I have something I think you will want to see.’ He put the phone down without waiting for a reply. Five minutes later Randy Hudson walked into the liaison officer’s room.
‘We picked up a transmission,’ the young official told him. ‘It’s from somewhere in Afghanistan to MI6 in London. We listen in on their Mercury 6 satellite sir,’ he reminded Hudson. ‘The message wasn’t coded sir, transmitted in clear. Headquarters at Langley interpreted the message and sent an encrypted version here.’ He picked up a sheet of notepaper. ‘I’ve written the message down sir.’ He passed it to Hudson.
The CIA man read the message nodded briefly and thanked the young CIA official. ‘Time to kick ass,’ he said, and left the room.
Milan Janov was watching an Arab channel on the hotel room TV when the phone rang. It was Hudson. He told Janov that his informer, an interpreter who was paid by the CIA had told him where Abdul was heading. He passed the details on to Janov.
Janov’s face broke out into a broad grin as he put the phone down. He switched the TV off and picked up his leather jacket from the foot of the bed. Then he went to the room next door to his and knocked gently on the door.
‘Rafiq, it’s me; Milan!’
Maggot opened the door and let him in. Janov closed the door behind him.
‘I know where Abdul is going; north from here, about twenty miles.’
Maggot looked surprised. ‘That was quick, Milan.’
It should have come as no surprise to Maggot that Janov had picked the information up quickly; there were that many spies in Afghanistan and people in other people’s pockets that it was amazing that they didn’t publish daily bulletins in the local press concerning the whereabouts of people.
