‘One moment, sir.’
The silence that followed was interrupted by music. Then, a minute or so later the secretary came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Sir Giles has no recollection of anyone by that name from his school years. He does apologise and hopes this hasn’t inconvenienced you. Good day.’
The phone went dead. Blake looked at his son. ‘Well, Marcus, I said they would be a suspicious lot. At least we know he’s there, don’t we?’
Marcus nodded his approval. ‘OK Dad, now we go and wait until he goes to lunch.’
And that was why they were sitting on the bench, and had been for an hour or so when Cavendish came out of the building and hailed a cab. Blake stiffened and nodded in the man’s direction.
‘That’s him, Marcus. I remember the randy old goat as if it were yesterday.’
‘Did he really chase after mum?’ Marcus asked.
‘He wasn’t the only one,’ Blake muttered. ‘They were like flies round the jam pot sometimes.’
Marcus smiled at the thought. ‘Never make a pretty woman your wife, so the song goes,’ he said to his father, and put his arm up to a passing taxi.
‘I’ll remind you when it’s your turn to get married,’ his father said and stood up. ‘OK my boy, time I caught the train back home and let you get back to this mysterious job you’ve got.’
‘I haven’t got it yet,’ he lamented. ‘But I may be able to provoke a reaction and get into someone’s good books,’ he said as he climbed into the cab.
‘Pretty, is she?’
Marcus looked up at his father’s smiling face. He held his hand out. His father took it and then leaned forward and gave him a hug. He felt Marcus’s body stiffen slightly.
‘Be careful, Marcus. No heroics. And don’t let your mother know what we’ve been up to; she’d have a fit.’
Marcus winked at him. ‘Thanks Dad, I’ll see you around.’
He turned to the taxi driver and pointed up the embankment to where Cavendish was getting in his taxi. ‘Follow that cab.’
Sir Giles Cavendish paid off the taxi outside Covent Garden and wandered down the stairs through the throng of tourists watching the classical musicians busking in the small area allocated for the acts that performed there. Not far behind, Marcus followed using his camera like any tourist, and making sure Cavendish was in every shot.
Cavendish had not bothered to wear a coat and was now beginning to wish he had. But his business in Covent Garden wasn’t going to take up too much of his time, and he knew the man he was meeting would probably not want to linger either.
He saw him sitting at an outside table, still with his black overcoat buttoned up. It was one of the little foibles of The Right Honourable James Purdy, Secretary of State for International Development, that he was never without the coat. He stood up as Cavendish pulled out a chair and sat down. Purdy glanced over at the inconspicuous watcher in black who he knew would be carrying a gun and nodded that his visitor was bona fide.
Cavendish sat down and ordered a cup of English tea with milk. He looked across the table at the Minister and noticed a bruise on the side of his face. Cavendish touched the side of his own cheek.
‘Fall over?’ he asked.
The minister chuckled. ‘Didn’t take enough water with it, old boy.’
Cavendish noticed he had three scratch marks beneath his ear. ‘My, my, you certainly have been in the wars.’
‘Nothing a good nurse can’t handle.’
Cavendish mumbled something and then spotted the waitress walking towards him with his tea. He waited until it was served and the waitress had left before opening up his conversation with the Minister.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, Minister. I find it useful to have the public around with all the noise and what have you. And I’m sure we can keep this in house as it were.’
The Minister smiled. ‘So long as what you wish to talk about does not fall within the parameters of my role with the Cabinet,’ he replied.
Cavendish shifted slightly, moving his body in such a way that it opened up into a friendly gesture. ‘It has nothing to do with your job, Minister, more to do with you.’
The Minister’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, in what way?’
Cavendish looked across at the minder and held his hands open above the table for a brief moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope.
‘I would like you to look at these photographs, Minister and say nothing nor do anything.’
He slid the envelope across the table. The minister reached forward, a curious expression beginning to scramble his features. He opened the envelope and pulled out the photographs. Immediately the colour drained from his face and he looked across at Cavendish.
‘What the blazes?’
Cavendish held up his hand. ‘I know how you got the bruises and the scratches on your face, Minister. Now, would you like to arrange to speak to me privately, with or without your lawyer?’
Cavendish’s expression was as hard and cold as iron. It also looked regal; rather like an eagle on its eyrie, its prey struggling beneath the vicious talons that were sunk deep into its victim’s flesh.
And standing above them, leaning against the railings, Marcus was busy photographing the whole thing.
David Ellis heard the sound of a vehicle grinding its way across the rocky ground towards the compound. He sat up and struggled to his feet, then edged his way carefully to the cave opening.
David had hobbled out of the cave once the attack was over and struggled down to the compound. In all he counted about twenty bodies as he searched among the ruins and the devastation. There was nobody left alive.
He made it into what was left of the house and began searching around for something to help him get his gag off. He came across an old, wooden coat hook and managed to remove his gag by slipping the edge of the hook between his cheek and the gag and pulling down sharply.
Once the gag was off, David was able to find a container of water. Although it was lying flat on its side and most of the water had dribbled out, he was at least able to get down to it like a dog and fidget with it until he had drank enough to quench his thirst.
He knew he would find some food because the men would have been preparing supper when the attack came. He came across a cupboard, its door shattered and hanging from its hinges. He found fruit, bread and some meat. But before he attempted to eat anything, he went in search of the man who had been his jailer. If he could find that man’s body, he was sure he would find the keys to his handcuffs.
It took David about twenty minutes to find the body and another twenty minutes of sheer frustration before he could bring his hands round to the front of his body and get the key to his handcuffs. Once he had removed them he had to rub his wrists gently to restore some life into them. He picked up the dead man’s Kalashnikov machine gun, took a bandolier from the man’s shoulders and went back into the house to eat.
David woke suddenly as the noise of a diesel engine invaded his sleep. He realised that he must have slept through the night because there was daylight penetrating the cave. He had chosen to stay in the cave because he was afraid of being alone in the shattered house.
He looked down towards the compound as a Toyota pick-up truck bumped its way across the terrain. He tightened his grip on the Kalashnikov and waited, not really knowing what he would do. He wasn’t sure if the men in the pick-up were hostile or not. It was an irony that didn’t escape him because his kidnappers were hostile by definition, and the previous night’s attackers were not concerned about searching for him, so they obviously had no interest in his predicament. That’s if they even knew he existed.
So he watched and waited, and what he saw began to convince him that the men who had turned up were friends of those who had died fighting. He could see by their body language the despair that would have been seen on their faces. And that put him on the horns of a dilemma; should he go out to them or remain hidden in the cave?
