Defender: Intrepid 1 Page 3

  “He’s done,” Lundt said, staring at Collins. “You’ll get nothing from him now. Finish him and be done with it.”

  “Yes, English. I will finish him. Here. Now. You will see. This spy from your England. Sent to kill Baptiste – in my country. To kill Mobuto. Probably to kill even you, English.” Baptiste was shouting at the wretched mess in the chair. “He thought he was clever. Too clever for we simple Africans.” The shouting turned to a shriek of naked rage. “Can you believe that?” As if to accentuate the question, Baptiste lashed out, pistol-whipping Collins across the face. Lundt remained silent. He’d witnessed Baptiste’s rants before. He knew what was coming, knew death was only seconds away, that there was no stopping what was now sport for Baptiste. “Kill him, Mobuto,” barked Baptiste.

  Mobuto stepped forward, gripped Collins by the face, drew the blade of an M9 bayonet from a scabbard, and stabbed it hard through the side of the man’s neck. Collins’s entire body contorted, straining against the wire lashings, as Mobuto forced the blade in deep. A succession of convulsions shook the man before he finally stilled.

  Mobuto casually wiped the blood from the bayonet on Collins’s body and re-sheathed it. His expression did not change. Lundt didn’t move. Instead, he remained pressed up hard against the wall, watching a pool of blood creeping across the short distance from the chair toward the soles of his desert boots. His jaw was clenched tight, his mouth dry as he attempted to read Baptiste’s expression.

  “And now he is dead.” Baptiste walked up to Lundt, looking closely into his eyes as if for the first time. “You do not want to end up in that chair, English. Although I think my friend Mobuto would like to see you in it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  INTREPID HQ

  BROADWAY, LONDON

  The rain had set in and showed no sign of retreating. People were tumbling in and out of St. James’s Park Station and rushing along Broadway, winds whipping at the tails of their long coats and wrenching at the umbrellas that were barely holding up against the relentless elements. The full force of the British winter had wrapped London in a depressing bleakness.

  Major General Reginald “Nobby” Davenport CBE, DSO, MC, gazed out over Westminster from his office. Tall and solidly built, his salt and pepper hair and perfectly kept beard gave him a regal appearance but his expression was grave.

  The son of a former sergeant major of the New Zealand Army, Davenport had come a long way from his boyhood years in Auckland. But wherever he’d been since, the rain always reminded him of growing up in New Zealand and of old friends and long departed family. And now, so many years removed from the boy he had been, he remained still for a few moments and closed his eyes, shutting out the world, embracing the soothing rumble of the rain as it drummed against the bullet-resistant glass. While he’d always found comfort in the rain, in the current circumstances, he looked forward to the spring. A little sunshine would go a long way to lightening his somber mood.

  Dotted along the oak-paneled and volume-lined walls of his spacious office, were the mementos of a lifetime dedicated to the protection of others. A plethora of awards and presentation plaques from military units, legal bodies and law-enforcement agencies across the world stood proudly alongside photographs and certificates chronicling Davenport’s career. A coat stand, which included Davenport’s very well-worn Special Air Service beret, a maroon beret from his days with the Parachute Regiment and the iconic light blue beret of the UN, which he’d worn in Cambodia and later again in East Timor, sat discreetly in a corner by the door. There was a framed satellite image of the Falkland Islands, a black and white photograph of a young Davenport among SAS comrades in full counter-terrorism rig, and a presentation plaque in recognition of his contribution to the establishment of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. A photograph with Queen Elizabeth II, at his investiture as a Commander of the Order of the British Empire, took pride of place on a cleared area of shelf behind his desk.

  As director-general of Intrepid, this was the inner sanctum Davenport had established as his field office – his “war room” – separate from, yet complementary to, the austere glass-and-steel enclosure he maintained as his second office at the Intrepid command center, deep within the complex in Lyon where Interpol was officially headquartered.

  Despite its late-nineteenth-century façade and decor, the London office was buried behind a veritable labyrinth of state-of-the-art biometric and physical security systems and was accessed via a nondescript entrance, within a nondescript building, off Queen Anne’s Gate in the busy heart of Westminster. Increasingly, the necessary expansion of Intrepid dictated that London was where Davenport and his personal staff needed to be and the secretary general of Interpol, to whom Davenport answered, was, thankfully, in agreement. London was proving to be much more functional than suburban France as the center for Intrepid field agents, particularly in view of the covert nature of their operations and the necessity to maintain the absolute secrecy of their identities. To him, the safety of his agents and the integrity of their personal security arrangements were everything.

  Davenport had just returned from three days of intelligence briefings in Lyon, covering current Interpol operations worldwide. He carried a burden of responsibility few would covet. Strangely, it was this unenviable knowledge of and familiarity with the worst of human behavior that kept him in the game. Davenport had been committed to the defense of others for his entire adult life, driven by a sense of duty his father had instilled in him as a boy.

  The general turned from the soothing drum of the rain. As was his habit, he loosened his tie and draped his jacket across the back of his chair. It was time for some real work, away from the conference tables and back to the frontlines.

  “Mrs. Ashcroft-James has arrived, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jolley,” he said to the intercom. “Please send her in – and arrange some tea, if you would.”

  Violet Ashcroft-James entered Davenport’s office with the familiarity and affection of the old friend she was. She was a striking woman, with soft brown eyes and thick, shoulder-length raven hair, always with the left side tucked behind her ear, giving her an air of seductive studiousness.

  Ashcroft-James had had a dream run from her very earliest days as a young Oxford political science graduate, hand picked for the Ministry of Defense and nurtured all the way to her current role, at the relatively tender age of forty-nine, as chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, or “C”, as the chief is traditionally known.

  She’d had steady contact with Davenport over the years through the various military and intelligence circles. And the Whitehall rumor mill was correct that they’d enjoyed a brief but passionate liaison when, fresh from his first stint with the SAS, Davenport had been assigned to Ministry of Defense as a newly promoted major attached to the Parachute Regiment and Ashcroft-James had been a new recruit to the MOD. They had been discreet but also inseparable for an intense few months. However, Davenport’s inevitable operational deployments – with the Paras to Northern Ireland and again with the SAS, including the first Gulf War – had put paid to any future for their fledgling relationship.

  “It’s so good to see you, V,” said Davenport, welcoming Ashcroft-James with a warm kiss on her cheek.

  “I’m sorry to be so cryptic about all this, Nobby,” she replied ruefully, holding his hands. “I felt it best we talk face to face.”

  “Well, you know I’m always delighted to receive a visit, but I fear I’m about to hear something unlikely to meet with my approbation.”

  “Afraid so,” Violet conceded with a slight nod and a twitch of her right eyebrow.

  Davenport guided her toward a small cluster of masculine leather chairs, set around an equally masculine circular coffee table of fine mahogany with a patina darkened by age. They made small talk about children, recent holidays and mutual acquaintances. Ashcroft-James avoided referring to Davenport’s recent divorce, his second. Instead she straightened the books on t
he table before her and, reaching over, flicked a small piece of lint from Davenport’s waist coat before settling on the edge of her seat, ankles crossed. It was her way with him, natural and unaffected. Davenport waited a few moments as Margaret Jolley, his personal assistant of many years, quietly entered, setting down tea for Ashcroft-James, coffee for him.

  “Violet,” Davenport said, “I can tell by the uncharacteristically glum expression on your face that this is not going to be pleasant. We’ve known each other too long. Let’s have it.”

  “Nobby,” Violet began. “I have a very serious problem.” She was searching for a place to start, to balance her obligations to her service and government with the great affection and trust she held for him. Honesty and respect had always been the foundation of their long-lasting relationship, professionally and intimately. But could she tell him everything in this instance?

  She got to her feet. Her knuckles were white as she made her hands into fists and paced the room. She stood at the window, her full weight thrusting down on her heels, knees locked, shoulder blades rigid. She began.

  “Recently we sent an agent, experienced man by the name of Lundt, to Malfajiri to keep an eye on a private military company called Chiltonford.”

  “I know of Chiltonford,” said Davenport. “What was the basis of your concerns about them?”

  “Absolutely nothing. But in the absence of formal British military assistance to the Malfajirian Government in dealing with their civil war, Chiltonford was selected and therefore endorsed by our Foreign Office to be given a free hand – along with a blank check – to train the Malfajirian Army, with the subsidiary task of protecting British mining interests over there, which, as you know, are considerable. In the eyes of my political masters, the instability of President Namakobo’s government and the emerging influence of the rebel leader, Colonel Baptiste, made it prudent to put an agent in Chiltonford to keep an eye on things.”

  “And?” The general gave her a skeptical gaze.

  “And,” she continued sheepishly, “if the opportunity to deal with this Baptiste creature presented itself, my agent was authorized to act.” Ashcroft-James returned to her seat opposite Davenport.

  “I see,” Davenport said flatly. He understood the imperative of governments to protect their investments. Assassination was always one of the fallback options.

  “Everything was going to plan until a couple of months in, when Lundt went missing without trace. His absence was totally out of character, and Chiltonford’s management were at a loss to explain it. Obviously they have no idea he’s one of mine. They simply reported the absence of one of their key team members to the Foreign Office.” The chief of SIS paused to take a sip of tea, before abruptly thrusting the cup and saucer away and making a demand that startled Davenport: “Haven’t you anything stronger?”

  Davenport could see that there was something burning away at her. Crossing to a salver containing three decanters, he poured neat whiskey into two tumblers and returned to the table. Wordlessly he handed her a glass and repositioned himself in the chair opposite.

  “As you can imagine, when SIS communication protocols for Lundt to report in came and went, we grew concerned. That said, and despite the concern, Chiltonford needed an urgent replacement to maintain their contractual commitments to the Malfajirian Government. So, working with the Foreign Office, I authorized the deployment of a second agent, a new man, named Collins.”

  Ashcroft-James leant down to retrieve a USB datastick from the tan handbag at her feet. She passed it to Davenport.

  “These images were sent by our embassy in Malfajiri. I received them this morning. I’m told that this is all that remains of him.”

  CHAPTER 6

  LONDON

  Less than two days ago, Morgan had been sweltering under the tropical heat and humidity of northern Australia in shorts and a T-shirt, but now he was in London, on a depressingly cold, gray Monday morning in late January, already missing the Aussie summer he’d left behind. Morgan caught his own reflection in the window of a car as it eased onto Broadway from Scotland Yard’s secure car park. His thick dark hair was looking decidedly wooly all of a sudden, and he wondered idly if the boss would notice.

  He was standing beneath the famous revolving sign outside New Scotland Yard, feeling anything but a so-called “Defender”, as the international intelligence services grapevine had apparently tagged him and his fellow Intrepid agents. He was bloody freezing, as was everybody else struggling along Broadway, he guessed, including the lads on security duty at the entry into the Yard. The wind and drizzle formed an uncompromising alliance to bombard him, so he kept his gloved hands buried deep within the pockets of his favorite navy blue peacoat, hunching his shoulders to fend off the chill. Underneath, he wore a black woolen roll-neck sweater with jeans and well-worn, but polished, RM Williams boots.

  “Come on then, young Major Morgan,” said a gruff voice from behind. Morgan turned to see his chief, General Davenport, approaching through the guard post. “You can buy me a whiskey,” suggested the general with a smile, “and we can talk shop over lunch.”

  Davenport was clad in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, bespoke a little off Saville Row, under a heavy charcoal overcoat. Morgan often thought that he looked like Prince Michael of Kent, although he’d never tell the general that.

  “Morning, sir.” Morgan smiled and, removing a glove, shook Davenport’s hand firmly before they set off along the sodden footpath, braced against the icy bite of the wind. “How are you?”

  “Well, I’m above ground and vertical. There’s a lot to be said for that,” commented Davenport dryly.

  One of those days, Morgan mused. “Where are we off to then? The Sanctuary is close unless you’d like to go somewhere else?”

  “I drink at the Red Lion,” replied Davenport shortly. “And I could do with the walk. Just been with Commissioner Hutton for the past two hours.” Sinclair Hutton was commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. “The Yard, as usual, is a bloody madhouse.”

  “Something domestic, sir?” asked Morgan.

  “Let’s just say, he’s owed me favors for years,” Davenport replied evasively, “and I’ve called them in. I just dropped in to check on progress.”

  “How’s the leg?” asked Morgan, as he strode along beside his boss.

  “This cold weather’s no bloody help, I can tell you,” Davenport grumbled in response. For almost twenty years he had lived with a piece of Iraqi shrapnel embedded within his right knee, the result of a near miss that had ended his career with the SAS. A string of surgeons had been consulted and, despite the pain and endless irritation it produced, the unanimous decision was reached that the shrapnel was best left where it was, rather than risking complex surgery that couldn’t be guaranteed and would most likely leave him in a worse state. As a result, Davenport lived with the metal embedded in his knee and over the years, had developed a limp. On cold days like today, the limp became pronounced and the general notoriously ill-tempered.

  “Don’t you own a suit?” Davenport grumbled almost to himself as he cast a disapproving look over Morgan. “Now that you’ve joined us permanently we really must sort that out, and you could do with a haircut, too.”

  Morgan simply nodded and grinned sheepishly as the two of them strode past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. The mission to intercept the fishing trawler had been his first as a fully fledged Intrepid agent and, despite his extensive experience as an army officer, he was still reeling from the fact that he had well and truly jumped into the big league. There was no turning back now. They crossed over into Whitehall just as Big Ben chimed twelve. The London Eye, or “that bloody abomination”, as the general routinely referred to it, looked on from across the Thames as they walked into the Red Lion.

  To spare the general’s knee, they ordered lunch at the bar, rather than going upstairs to the restaurant. The Lion was sufficiently busy with its usual assortment of parliamentarians, civil servants and touri
sts for them to discuss what they’d come to discuss – albeit guardedly – without fear of being overheard. Morgan bought drinks and Davenport found a ledge near a window looking out onto Whitehall. Under the watchful gaze of Lord Stanley’s modestly sized portrait hanging above them, Davenport, leaning against a stool, stretched his long legs out in the hope that they would thaw and give him some respite from the pain.

  “So what’s the score?” asked Morgan, returning and handing over a glass of whiskey to Davenport. He slipped onto a stool opposite his boss, sipping a pint of Guinness. “You haven’t given much away so far.”

  “There’s been a development while you were in Australia, a significant one, and it’s the reason I dragged you back here so quickly. You did very well out there, Alex. So I’m going to throw you in the deep end.”

  “I’m all ears,” Morgan replied. He had wondered at the rapid turnaround on that last assignment. The HMAS Albany had barely come alongside in Darwin before he was recalled to London, leaving the Aussie navy to deal with the weapons haul from the Marengo. Whatever casualness the director-general of Intrepid had been evincing evaporated as he drew in his outstretched legs and began formally briefing his agent.

  “Two British SIS agents operating in Malfajiri recently disappeared. They were involved with a British private military company. An outfit called Chiltonford. You’ve heard of them?”

  “I know of them, sir,” said Morgan with a slight nod. “Good crew by all accounts.”

  “That’s consistent with most views on them, mine included,” Davenport said. “Britain has opted not to make any formal military commitment to Malfajiri, so the Foreign Office sanctioned Chiltonford to provide security and training support to the Malfajirian Government. Training advisors, vehicle convoy escorts, protection of expats involved in the country’s mining operations. Exactly the tasks they’ve conducted in other parts of the world for years, and still are. They have an exemplary record. SIS were supposed to be babysitting; keeping an eye on things.” He held Morgan’s eyes momentarily. “All of the expected tasks were apparently going along nicely until the first SIS agent disappeared, followed in reasonably quick succession by his replacement. Interestingly, their disappearances coincide exactly with Baptiste’s anti-government movement gaining momentum over there.”