‘You could make an appointment if you like, but it wouldn’t be until next week at the earliest. Sir Giles is a very busy man.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Marcus told her, ‘but it is imperative that he sees what I have to show him.’
‘Perhaps you could post it to Sir Giles, recorded delivery. Or fax it if that’s possible. Would you like to leave your name sir?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down. He was annoyed because he had to find a way to rattle Sir Giles Cavendish’s cage, and maybe find some answers for Susan Ellis.
David Ellis was under no illusions; he was still a prisoner despite the fact that he was no longer in chains or confined to a darkened room. He had been bundled into the back of the pick-up truck by the men who had turned up at the compound, but not until he had helped bury their fallen comrades. Their leader, Abdul Khaliq had not taken part in the arduous and grisly task, but had spent a great deal of time in the house and generally wandering about encouraging his men as they worked.
David wondered if he would be taken somewhere else later on, but for the time being he was sitting at a table with a stew of lamb in front of him, a bowl of rice and fruit on the table. The others, who were ignoring him, ate heartily, and he was surprised to see that they were all in good spirits; there seemed to be no remorse or tears over their fallen comrades in arms.
David understood the hearts and minds of these men, and knew that in their self-proclaimed fight against the infidel, they lacked nothing in courage and had an amazing self-belief, not only in themselves but in the rights of their cause and what they believed was the defence of their faith.
David had seen Abdul briefly before the meal had been served, but the man had said nothing to him, especially about the strange remark regarding David’s freedom. Once the men had finished and women appeared to clear the table, the room began to empty until there was only Abdul and David remaining.
Abdul Khaliq cut an imposing and dominating figure. He was an intimidating man and had an aura about him that demanded allegiance from his men. His reputation went before him, and to be in his presence was almost to be subdued.
He carried himself well, having a fine physique, although it was difficult to detect beneath the traditional Arab clothes he was wearing. There was no sign of any weapon on him, not even the pantomime belt and scimitar. And in front of David, who did not have an imposing presence at all, Abdul had no need for a display of weaponry of any sort.
Abdul moved along to the end of the table where David was sitting and took a seat. David waited patiently, having no other option, until Abdul spoke.
‘Your freedom,’ Abdul began, ‘can now be exchanged for something.’
David felt a surge of relief, but he said nothing because he knew that men like Abdul and his kind were always very patient, and their words and arguments could be stretched almost indefinitely.
‘We have kept you with us for a long time because it is always useful to have somebody who may be of use to us in our war against the infidel.’ He stopped there and regarded David with a look that seemed to search deep into his soul. ‘I know you were working for British Intelligence at the Mission.’
David opened his mouth in surprise, but Abdul held his hand up.
‘Please do not try to deny it. Your work for The Chapter was simply a cover, but now that is no longer important. What is important now is how I can use you, and how we can secure your release.’
David waited until he believed he could say something. ‘You mean a hostage exchange, or something like that?’ he asked.
Abdul didn’t answer the question; he simply ignored it.
‘The men who attacked the compound were not soldiers.’ David frowned at that assertion. ‘They were mercenaries employed by the same group who attacked the Mission.’
‘What group?’ David asked immediately.
Abdul shook his head. ‘At the moment, that is not important. But I believe those men were being used by someone within British and American Intelligence to bring discredit on the Taliban.’
‘But you are not Taliban,’ David pointed out.
Abdul put his hand up. ‘That is not important; it was done for other reasons. Your people in the West will believe anything. But there was another reason behind the attack on our compound.’
David waited for an explanation but nothing came for a while. ‘What was the reason then?’ he asked eventually.
‘At the moment it isn’t necessary for you to know or even to understand the reasons why,’ Abdul told him. ‘But what you must understand is that I want you to do something for me that could bring you your freedom.’
David could think of nothing he could do, given the circumstances of his confinement that could help Abdul in any way. But he asked, naturally.
‘What can I do?’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘You wrote something, a long time ago. Remember?’
David thought back to when he had been taken from the hospital. One of Abdul’s men had given him a notebook and asked him to write down what had happened at the Mission. David needed time to bring himself to recall on paper exactly what he had seen and what had transpired. And when he had written just a couple of pages, the book had been taken away from him. He decided then it was the beginning of their mind games; deprivation: giving something and then taking it away.
While David was thinking, Abdul watched him carefully.
‘We took the book and removed a lot of the empty pages. Then we soiled it, made it looked as though you had written it while being desperately ill.’
‘Why did you do that?’ David asked, frowning.
Abdul smiled. ‘Pretence,’ he said, then he took an apple from the bowl of fruit that was on the table and bit into it. He carried on talking as he was chewing the apple.
‘I want you to write a letter to the man you served in British Intelligence. I will tell you what to write. But first I want to know how much you trusted him, and if you still trust him.’
David lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt some comfort in being able to do that in front of the man who could order his death as easily as ordering a Hookah pipe. It was an absurd notion, but it implied a degree of relative ease within himself.
‘How can I answer that honestly?’ he queried. ‘I was working for a man who held many secrets; someone who has worked in powerful positions in the military. He was my boss and I was his employee. Do your men trust you?’
‘We trust Allah, who knows everything.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Abdul. How can I say to you that I trust my boss when I have been your prisoner for…’ He stopped; it occurred to David that he wasn’t really sure just how long he had been in captivity. ‘How long have I been here?’
Abdul shrugged. ‘No matter, you will write the letter and then, one day you might be a free man.’ He stood up. ‘ Inshalla! ’
And with that he walked out of the room leaving David to wonder if this was to be more of the mind games.
Marcus found a newspaper shop and bought a packet of envelopes. Then he went looking for a photocopier, finding one in an internet cafe. He took the photograph of Cavendish from his wallet and copied it a few times. Then he disfigured the face of the minister and wrote the words ‘Covent Garden’ on the top of the picture. Beneath this he wrote the words: “ I will call mid-day for three days.” Then he slipped the copy into an envelope and wrote “ For the attention of Sir Giles Cavendish only ”.
Satisfied with what he had done, he retraced his footsteps to the Embankment and MI6 headquarters.
EIGHT
Three days after Marcus had delivered his envelope by hand; there was a reception at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. John Deveraux, the Military Attache caught up with Chief Master Sergeant Danny Grebo and parted him from an attractive, female journalist representing CNN. He led Grebo away to a reasonably quiet area in the large reception room.