‘Mister Blake, I’m sorry, but there is no-one of that name here at the Foreign Office.’
Marcus sat upright. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked without thinking.
‘Yes sir; I have just checked the computer directory of employees here and there is no-one listed under the name of Cavendish.’
‘Oh.’ It was all he could think of saying at that moment. Then, ‘Oh well, thank you anyway.’
‘Thank you sir.’ The phone went dead.
Marcus put the phone back in its cradle. He sat like that for a while, his hand still lying on it and began to think of those points he had written while doodling and listening to Susan Ellis.
Cavendish. There had been something puzzling him about the man. When Susan Ellis told Marcus about her brief encounter with him, she had told him that she didn’t have Cavendish’s phone number and that she couldn’t call him back because his number had been withheld.
It was also odd that he seemed to know her the moment she walked into Starbucks, although that in itself was not significant. But the nonsense about the diplomatic bag was stretching things a bit, Marcus thought. His father had worked for the diplomatic Corps all his life and Marcus wondered how much credence he would put in a story like that. He picked up the phone, hit the speed dial and waited. A minute later his father came on the line.
‘Sir Henry Blake.’
Marcus chuckled. His father always answered the phone so that he sounded as though he was looking down his nose at the caller.
‘Hallo Dad, its Marcus.’
He sensed, rather than heard his father pull away from the phone.
‘Emily, do we know anybody called Marcus?’
Marcus rolled his eyes and waited. Then he heard his mother’s shout of joy in the background and the click of the phone extension as she picked it up.
‘Marcus, how lovely to hear from you. It’s been ages since you last called.’
‘A month, mother.’
‘Four months, Marcus.’
Marcus contested that. ‘Well, maybe three.’
‘How are you Marcus? Are you keeping well? When are you going to visit us? Your father and I would love to see you.’ Marcus just kept nodding. ‘And are you still working?’
‘Yes to all that, mother,’ Marcus butted in. He loved his mother dearly but she wouldn’t stop if he didn’t say anything. ‘Now, can I speak to Dad, please?’
‘I’m still here Marcus, as always.’
‘I know, Dad. Now look, I need a favour.’
His father made some kind of grunting sound down the phone. ‘Trouble with that escort agency of yours, is that it? Not enough Z list clients?’
Marcus banged his eyes. ‘Dad, I do not run an escort agency. I provide minders for important people.’
‘And how many minders do you have on your books?’ his father asked.
‘Well, it’s mainly me,’ he admitted. ‘But I do have men I can call on.’
‘As I thought; you’re sitting on your backside all day pretending you’re a big operator in the City. Why don’t you come home and get a proper job?’
‘I don’t need one, Dad; I’m happy and have enough money to keep my head above water.’
‘Your grandmother’s inheritance? Thought you would have blown that by now.’
Marcus had been left a generous annuity by his grandmother, part of which he had carefully reinvested and was now more than just comfortable.
‘So what do you need me for?’ his father asked.
‘Do you know anybody by the name of Cavendish?’ Marcus asked him. ‘A guy probably your age, may have gone to public school, University. Might have been in the military. Member of one of your clubs, perhaps?’
‘Hmmm. The sound rolled down the phone line. ‘I knew a Cavendish at Westminster. Went into the City, I think.’
There was silence for a while and Marcus knew his father was thinking. It was a positive sign because his father would never dwell on something that he knew he couldn’t possibly recall, so this was promising.
‘Of course,’ he father said suddenly. ‘I met a Cavendish a few years ago in Hong Kong, Something to do with military intelligence. It wasn’t the Cavendish I knew at school, but I do remember when I met this chap I asked him if we were at school together. He must have thought I’d lost my marbles.’
Marcus clenched a fist and gently punched the air. His father went on.
‘So yes, I do know a Cavendish, but if he’s your man, he doesn’t know me. Well, maybe he does. If he’s in Intelligence he’ll know every bloody diplomat going. Does that answer your question dear boy?’
Marcus nodded. ‘You’re a diamond dad, thanks a million.’
‘Wait, wait!’ his father called down the phone. ‘Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easy. Now, your mother and I want you to come up for a day or two. Can you pull yourself away from your not so busy schedule to see us?’
‘Tell you what, Dad,’ Marcus began, trying to come up with all kinds of imaginative reasons for delaying the inevitable. ‘Let me run this Cavendish bloke down and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Marcus.’ This was his mother. ‘Your father is talking about Sir Giles Cavendish. We met him at the handing over ceremony in Hong Kong. I think he was rather taken with me, but your father saw him off. Spoil sport,’ she added with a chuckle.
‘Take no notice, Marcus,’ his father urged him. ‘And be sure to come up here and see us.’
‘I will, Dad. Promise. Love you both!’ He put the phone down and leapt out of the chair. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘A result.’
FOUR
The Mercedes rolled smoothly to a stop outside one of the large residences in a leafy avenue in St. John’s Wood in London. It was almost midnight and the occupants of the car could not be seen through the blackened windows. There were a few lights showing from the windows of other houses in the road, but not enough to deter the man who stepped from the car.
He was wearing a long, black overcoat with the collar turned up. He had sunglasses on despite the darkness and was also wearing a fedora hat, pulled down low to avoid recognition. The driver of the car had opened the door for the passenger and, now that the man had gone through the pedestrian gate and was striding up the path towards the house, he closed the car door and slipped his baulk effortlessly into the driver’s seat and moved the car away from the kerb.
The passenger reached the door of the house which was opened for him without the need for him to announce his presence, and he stepped inside where he stood quite still while another man patted him down, searching him for weapons.
Once the procedure was completed, he was shown through a door into a large drawing room where two other men were seated. The lighting in the room was subdued, but this was used to create shadows in which the two men were sitting and where the third man now joined them.
Once the trio had nodded there introductions, none of which were necessary or even allowed, another door opened and three young girls were brought in through the open doorway. They were all dressed with very little clothing, and what they were wearing was carefully arranged to leave very little to the imagination.
A brutish looking man followed the girls into the room and closed the door behind him. He was dressed completely in black and wore no jewellery. He wore his hair close cropped, rather like the style favoured by American servicemen, but he wasn’t anything of the kind; his name was Milan Janov, cousin of Danny Grebo.
Janov was carrying three folders and he handed one to each of the men sitting in the room. He gave them time to browse through the folders until he was satisfied that they were aware of what they contained. Despite the shadows, the men had no difficulty in picking out the inventory of weapons that were printed therein.
