Defender: Intrepid 1 Read online

  “Sounds like there’s a time issue, for someone,” observed Morgan.

  “Seems that way, and these old Soviet-Bloc weapons have been turning up in the hands of Baptiste’s rebel forces for some time – confiscated stuff that the Americans collected in Bosnia and Serbia, intended for issue to the Iraqi security forces.”

  “I’ve heard around the traps that the Pentagon’s been forced to come clean,” said Morgan. “Their bookwork hasn’t been up to speed, or something, and they lost thousands of these weapons.”

  “About two hundred thousand, actually,” said General Davenport. “Some of which, as you noted in your report, you found on that fishing trawler, transferred from the Marengo. God only knows what else has made its way out into the marketplace. Hence my attention being drawn to this elusive, and to date unidentified, consortium operating out of the Middle East and Africa.”

  “Well, it’s got to be someone with an established connection in Iraq who can get their hands on those weapons,” Morgan mused. “Especially on that scale. Takes real resources and contacts to move those kinds of numbers around.”

  “Agreed. It’s no secret that the rutile mining concessions alone in Malfajiri are worth billions of pounds. Hard to believe that this rock is the basis for the production of titanium, but there you have it. Malfajiri rutile accounts for sixty-five percent of their exports and thirty percent of the world market, and with a projected mine life of twenty to thirty years, the fortunes to be made are astronomical. When you throw their projected diamond reserves into the mix, there’s quite an incentive to be playing for the right team when the shooting eventually stops.”

  “So, what happens now, sir?”

  “Well,” replied Davenport, “that’s where you come in. Two days ago I met with the chief of SIS, Violet Ashcroft-James. She came with hat in hand to seek my assistance in tracking down her lost agents. To sweeten the deal she let on that her people have been monitoring a Foreign Office official who’s come to their attention as a result of certain unexplained funds making their way through accounts linked to him – conflict of interest as a civil servant and so on. Given that this aspect is very much a British problem, she was reluctant to divulge his name – not keen to air Britain’s dirty laundry to Interpol, she said. However, she did reveal that this man’s position within the Foreign Office immediately raised alarm bells that rang all the way across the Thames to her office at Vauxhall Cross. So, through a series of telephone and computer intercepts – bloody techno-gobbledygook to me – SIS identified an association between this Foreign Office man and an unknown person, a Briton, operating in Malfajiri. The information to date is largely circumstantial. Most of the communication was encrypted and, despite all of the state-of-the-art technology at their disposal, SIS apparently haven’t had any luck deciphering it. So, they’re yet to confirm the identity of his contact. Astonishing.” Davenport took a drink. “Fortunately, this Foreign Office person has absolutely no idea that they’re interested in him. Or, so I’m told.”

  “What does he do at the Foreign Office?” asked Morgan.

  “Well, it seems he’s the man to know if you’re a private military company and you want a British Government contract,” answered the general.

  “And you think his contact in Malfajiri is with Chiltonford?” Morgan asked.

  “It’s highly likely. That said, I doubt Chiltonford are behind it. As you say, they are well regarded and to all intents and purposes, a good outfit. But I’ve been wrong before, so we can’t discount it. Let’s say that it would be reasonable to surmise that a couple of the in-country people may be implicated in some way.”

  “Whoever he is, he’d have to be supported from outside. It’d be impossible to coordinate anything significant inside Malfajiri on your own. Especially now,” Morgan hypothesized.

  “Indeed. And despite Ashcroft-James’s reticence to give too much away, I believe she considers Mr. Foreign Office the obvious candidate.” Davenport took another pull at his whiskey.

  Morgan could see that the general was conflicted. “You trust Ashcroft-James, sir?”

  “I’ve no reason to distrust her; known her for years. But there’s something going on that she’s not disclosing. We must remember that she is, after all, a spook. Promises you the world …”

  “… And gives you an atlas,” Morgan rejoined. They both laughed.

  “Here you go, handsome.” The girl who’d taken Morgan’s order at the bar was coming toward them juggling plates and cutlery.

  Morgan eased around, offering his broad, crooked smile, and said, “Thanks, darlin’,” then retrieved the lunches from her. Her eyes remained locked on him, and his on her, before she skillfully negotiated her way back to the bar, swiveling her hips through the Lion’s clientele. Morgan averted his eyes as he slid a plate full of some pasta concoction across the ledge to Davenport, then placed down his own sausages and mash. Davenport smiled and shook his head, having noted the girl’s obvious interest in Morgan.

  “What’s up, sir?” Morgan asked, seeing the smile.

  “I’m obviously not keeping you away enough, or we’re going to have to find somewhere else to drink.”

  They began to eat.

  “It was like drawing blood from a stone,” Davenport continued, “but I did manage to establish some background on the missing agents. SIS planted an agent into Chiltonford when the company was awarded the contract to operate in Malfajiri. Victor Lundt, former soldier. Served in the Falklands as a young guardsman. Promoted through the ranks, went on to become an officer in the Brigade of Guards. Outstanding record in Northern Ireland, spent many years with 14 Intelligence Company, before being recruited to SIS. Been in the game a long time and served in just about every trouble spot you can think of. But after only a short time in Malfajiri, he disappeared. Communication channels dried up overnight.”

  “They think he’s dead?”

  “Possibly. Under pressure, Ashcroft-James agreed to the deployment of another agent – a man to replace Lundt. The Foreign Office had final say over recruitment and experienced soldiers are highly sought after in the top-end private military companies. This time they went for a new recruit to SIS – an ex-Special Air Service soldier named Collins. Was a good lad, by all accounts,” said the general, his tone somber.

  “Collins. Not Sergeant Sean Collins, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Why? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I do. Very well. He’s one of my best mates, in fact. We served together in 3PARA before he went off to Hereford. Loves a pint, old Sean.” Morgan smiled at some memory then paused abruptly, feeling sick to his stomach. “You said was a good lad?”

  CHAPTER 7

  LONDON

  There was an icy silence at the end of the line. He immediately regretted the accusatory tone of his last question. Lundt would not like that.

  He scratched nervously at his unkempt, thinning hair, patted his pockets for a cigarette and continued to wait for a reply. He felt compelled to fill the void. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to all this. You don’t understand,” he said, his voice trailing off meekly.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’re supposed to be my link, my finger on the pulse.” Lundt’s voice was deep. It held no emotion, no empathy.

  “For God’s sake. There must have been some other way of handling it. I mean, the man’s remains were …” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “These people don’t think like that,” Lundt stated boldly. Silence again. It extended for some time before he finally added: “Your fat little friend out here is getting nothing from you lot, which means I’ve got to risk being compromised and deal with you direct. That makes him and you less than useless. Do you actually have the faintest clue what’s going on?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the man replied, too quickly. But it was true. “Christ! Do you know the trouble you’ve—” He was annoyed that he felt so intimidated by this voice, this man he’d never met, thousands of miles away in a feste
ring scab of Africa. “I’ve a great deal at stake, you know,” he added. “A lot to lose.”

  “Yes, you do. You and your fat little mate,” said Lundt. “So, what are you doing about it?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. All I know is that there’s a real flap on and all information is being kept to a very select few.”

  “Ah, we few, we happy few.” Lundt’s tone grew even darker. “I suggest you make sure you’re one of them. It’s time you started delivering. If you’re no good to me—”

  “It’s not that easy. This has gone straight to the top. New people are coming and going. From different departments. Defense? The army? Scotland Yard? I can’t be sure,” stammered the civil servant from his swivel chair in London.

  “Find out!” hissed Lundt. “This place is about to collapse and I’m in the middle of it. Everything has gone to plan, but now we’re sailing too close to the wind and I don’t want to be worrying about things that you and your sodding boss should have taken care of. Got it?”

  “OK! OK! I’ll find out whatever I can.”

  “See that you do. I need to know exactly when Namakobo’s arriving in London and where he’ll be. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE RED LION

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Alex, but Sergeant Collins is dead.”

  Morgan’s expression barely altered, but Davenport knew better than to think he wasn’t affected. He knew soldiers, and news of a friend’s death, particularly one still in the business, held a peculiar significance for men like Morgan, who lived constantly in death’s shadow.

  “After a couple of months in Malfajiri,” Davenport continued, “Collins drew a blank. No sign of Lundt or any leads as to how he may have ended up. He reported the odd suspicion over some of Chiltonford’s in-country people, but nothing that SIS could act on. When I met with Violet and the Defense Minister last week and shared our information about your weapons haul, the silly bastards acted on it almost as soon as I’d left the bloody room. The pillars of the British Government are obviously desperate to distance themselves from any suggestion that a company endorsed by the Foreign Office is supplying guns to Baptiste’s rebels. But with nothing to go on, one of their agents missing, and a potential international disaster on their hands, they issued orders for Collins to kill Baptiste immediately, before he had a chance to launch the coup we’re all expecting.”

  “What the hell were they thinking?” Morgan said angrily. “Once again, some poor bastard has to stick his neck out to clean up someone else’s political mess. I suppose Sean was told they needed to contain the situation so it didn’t end up splashed all over BBC World.” He paused. “Do you know how he died?”

  “Yes, and I’ll get to that, but you need to prepare yourself. It’s not good.”

  “You don’t need to sugarcoat it for me, sir. I know the score. So did Sean. It all seems pretty bloody short-sighted,” he added.

  “How so?” Davenport asked.

  “Trying to kill Baptiste like that; I mean, there’s no analysis behind it. How could they possibly think that would be the answer – would stop the coup? If you ask me, there’s desperation in it. Personal desperation, if that makes any sense.” Morgan took a drink. He had known Collins well, and knew he was a selfless, outstanding soldier driven by duty. Morgan recalled the Parachute Regiment’s motto: “Ready for anything”; that was Sean Collins all over. Failure was not something he was familiar with, nor would he ever have considered it an option. He had been put in an untenable position by his masters in London, and had no choice but to accept their orders – for queen and country – with no backup and no chance of success.

  “I agree,” replied Davenport. “The short version is that the SIS plan failed, your friend is dead and we’re no closer to an answer on who’s behind Baptiste and his guns. To make matters worse, whoever they are, they’ve got the jump on us. They know the authorities are after them, but they also know we haven’t a damn clue who they are.”

  Davenport’s expression became grave. He rifled through the pockets of his overcoat, which he’d draped across a stool beside him, and extracted a BlackBerry. He thumbed the keypad and handed it to Morgan. “The first couple are of Lundt. A hard case and difficult to forget. Tall with distinctive features, including one very blue and one very brown eye.”

  “Heterochromia,” Morgan said as he took in the face of the missing British agent. “Can be hereditary or caused by some form of trauma. I read it in a magazine article recently,” he added in response to the general’s quizzical look. He studied Lundt’s face, zooming in on the pictures. Davenport was right. It was a face that would be hard to forget. Angular and long, it was a random assortment of misshapen features that, despite the irregularity, were somehow good-looking. Morgan imagined that the intensity of it all would make Lundt attractive to women. Some women, anyway.

  “If you scroll through, you’ll find what was left of Sergeant Collins. Be prepared, Alex. It’s not pretty.” Davenport waited until Morgan had obviously arrived at the images. “Confirmed by DNA analysis. He’d been tortured. What was left of him turned up in a plastic garbage bag that was unceremoniously hurled into the front yard of the British Consul’s residence in Cullentown.”

  “Christ,” Morgan whispered, keeping the BlackBerry cupped in his hand, close to his body. His right hand tightened into a fist that became tighter with each monstrous image. Morgan’s heart rate rose, and the muscles of his entire body tightened like wire cable. He felt a deep physical reaction to the photographs of his dead friend, and an irrepressible revulsion toward those who had done this. Slowly, reluctantly, he rolled his thumb over the trackball, advancing through the gruesome pictures one by one.

  “Forensics back here in England,” Davenport continued, “found evidence of human and canine teeth impressions along the bones and some areas of the flesh that weren’t burned.”

  At that, Morgan looked up sharply at his chief. After a time, he exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand across his face, shaking off the melancholy he was occasionally disposed to. Overexposure to the worst the world had to offer had a tendency of bringing it out in him and, in that regard, the past fifteen years had been unforgiving. Meanwhile, the bits and pieces of what had once been his friend Sean Collins, late of the Parachute Regiment and Special Air Service, reflected in Morgan’s green eyes from the tiny screen of the BlackBerry. This man had been one of Morgan’s exclusive fraternity, a fellow operator, doing a job similar to Morgan’s, and driven by the same motivations. Above all, Sean was, and would always be, a brother.

  “What do you need me to do?” Morgan asked, his tone flat and steely.

  “A coup d’état is imminent, Alex,” Davenport began, “I believe there are people within the British establishment intimately involved and who know more than they’re letting on. There may not be another chance like this. I’m certain our involvement will lead us to this consortium, which has been moving weapons around the globe for years – Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Sierra Leone, Iraq, Afghanistan – the modus operandi and scale of their operation is becoming a trademark. Malfajiri is just one of their markets, and Chiltonford, most likely, just one of their outlets. We know that the weapons you found on that trawler were from the US military supply system in Iraq, bound for Baptiste’s rebels. No doubt word of our interest in the Marengo was leaked, so the incriminating cargo was offloaded. Whichever way this goes, they’re my problem according to our charter. Lundt is missing in action and Collins was murdered because he was forced to show his hand too soon. That means these people, whoever they are, know they’re being watched. We’re running out of time and I have to take a gamble – even if it does involve making a deal with the devil.” His face remained grave. “So, I’m sending you in there to take Collins’s place.”

  CHAPTER 9

  FOREIGN AND COMMONWEALTH OFFICE

  KING CHARLES STREE
T, LONDON

  “Miss Halls, would you remain behind for a moment?” The request came from across the room.

  “Yes, of course.”

  The two waited for the others to leave, and returned to their seats as the door closed with a heavy echo along the corridor outside. Abraham Lawrence Johnson, the acting director-general of the Foreign Office’s Political Directorate, moved back behind the ornate Georgian desk he so coveted. Arena Halls, the assistant chief-of-staff to the actual director-general, returned to her chair opposite Johnson. Arena – or Ari as she was known to her family and friends – absentmindedly pushed a wayward strand of blond hair behind her left ear. Her crystal-blue eyes studied him carefully.

  “I recently had dinner with a singularly intriguing fellow,” Johnson began. “Chap named Davenport. ‘Nobby’ Davenport.”

  “Major General Davenport?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Injured commanding an SAS squadron in the first Gulf War, if I recall?”

  “So I believe. Terrible thing. I understand that when he was told he’d never serve operationally again, he threw himself into physical rehabilitation, transferred to Army Legal Services and never looked back.”