Defender: Intrepid 1 Page 5

  “In fact, he retired as director-general of Army Legal Services,” Ari added. She often felt compelled to remind Johnson that she was not only familiar with his history, but those of other senior people around Whitehall. She’d developed a way of carrying it off without sounding impertinent. Besides, it was her job to know such things. That said, she did it because she knew it nettled him.

  Ari’s loyalties remained firmly with her actual director-general, Mr. William Evans, CBE, LVO. However, she’d been forced to familiarize herself with Johnson’s CV when Mr. Evans had fallen suddenly ill, and Johnson, far too eagerly she recalled, had leapt from his position as director of International Security and into the Political Directorate’s top job – temporarily – although it had been six months already, and the cancer that had so arbitrarily dug its claws into Mr. Evans was showing little sign of remission. That didn’t seem to be of any concern to Abraham Johnson, which only strengthened Hall’s resolve to remain the eyes and ears of her DG, in readiness for the day when he would, she hoped, return.

  The only daughter of an American father and British mother, Arena Halls had grown up traveling the world with her parents. Her father’s career as an expert hydraulics engineer and her mother’s relief work in struggling communities abroad, along with an Oxford education, had prepared Ari perfectly for a career in the Foreign Office, and she had risen to prominence within a relatively short space of time with her reputation well and truly intact. Romantically, Ari had worn her heart on her sleeve once too often and recently she’d paid the price. Betrayal was something she said she’d never tolerate but, of course, that was always a lot easier said than done. Three months after putting an end to a two-year relationship, which Ari had believed to be the one, her heart was still torn apart. So it was that she’d learned from the successful female role-models around her and who she admired greatly: loyalty and career first and, nowadays, love last.

  She had been spotted by Director-General Evans and immediately appointed as the right hand to his chief-of-staff. When the chief-of-staff was away, as was the case now, Ari stepped up. It was a role that some saw as a responsibility beyond her twenty-six years – but her sagacity, intellect and an ability to recall even the most seemingly insignificant facts, were fast becoming lore around the corridors of the Foreign Office. She was a classic polymath, one of the DG’s select inner sanctum – Evans’s “Golden Girl”. Although, the weeks of Evans’s protracted absence had seen Johnson carry out a coup. Evans’s key people had been found other duties and Johnson had begun establishing his own cabinet. Ari knew she’d been kept around merely as window dressing to appease any suggestion that Evans’s team had been completely cleared out.

  The assistant chief-of-staff continued with her recitation of facts on Davenport, her eyes slightly narrowed as she remembered them. “Served in the New Zealand Army before moving to England to join the Special Air Service. Decorated in Northern Ireland and later in the Gulf with the SAS. A recognized authority on terrorism, rules of engagement, human rights and international humanitarian law. CBE, DSO, MC. Yes, I think that’s it.”

  “An outstanding chap indeed,” Johnson said with a pained smile when she finished. There was a moment of silence as he gathered his thoughts. “He’s been seconded to Interpol recently. Heads up a new area concerned with terrorism. Very secret.”

  “Yes,” she offered boldly. “Intrepid. I’ve received the brief.”

  “Not much gets past you, does it now?” Johnson said. “Yes, indeed. The ‘Sword of Interpol’: terrorists, their networks, weapons of mass destruction, illegal arms, the slave trade and illicit narcotics are among their targets. He has the great luxury of being able to hand pick his people from anywhere in the world. These Intrepid agents are part policeman, part soldier, part spy – or so they say.”

  “I understand the general’s known to run it old school, sir. Sends his agents out with the maxim ‘live by your wits’. He’s not keen on modern gadgets, or technology in the field,” Ari added. She was intrigued by the mystique surrounding Davenport and his “Defenders”, as they’d become known in select circles. “No fan of the modern ‘techno-spooks’, as he calls them.”

  “Quite right. Chalk that up to his colonial roots. Prides himself on choosing the types who could hold their own in a bar brawl, as easily as attend a formal occasion at the palace,” Johnson added disdainfully. “Anyway, he has raised some rather disturbing matters regarding Malfajiri, and as we’ve just discussed, the president of that country has declared a state of emergency and will arrive in London shortly to personally request Her Majesty’s help. We expect his government to fall at any time.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “General Davenport expressed a most grave concern over an issue involving arms smuggling. Specifically a major operation that the latest Interpol intelligence suggests is connected to a British private military company operating in Malfajiri.” He gave her a somewhat furtive glance. Ari remained silent. “There’s more. Interpol believes that whoever is behind this gun-running business has been secretly supplying the rebels in that country with their arms via a source within the American military in Iraq – arms that are being used against the democratically elected government of Malfajiri. This is a company, I might add, to which the Foreign Office, on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, has given its full endorsement.”

  “I see.” Ari moved uncomfortably in her chair. “And is the general suggesting that somebody in the Foreign Office is implicated?”

  “He’s not sure,” Johnson replied. There was a long pause. “But the mere suggestion of complicity by the Foreign Office, or any branch of the government for that matter, would be of immeasurable damage to Great Britain.”

  “The timing couldn’t be worse,” said Ari.

  “Exactly, especially with President Namakobo’s visit to Britain imminent, and this renegade, Baptiste, looking for the first opportunity to assassinate him. The fact that Baptiste is part of this al-Qaeda-linked extremist alliance operating throughout West Africa isn’t exactly comforting. Of course, it’s impossible to know what any of these revolutionaries are these days: Muslim, Communist … Labor!” He tossed her a flicker of a smile, a rare occurrence. “Fanatics take their support anywhere they can get it, from whomsoever may provide the funds. In the old days, it was the Soviet Union,” Johnson added pensively. “According to Davenport, this alliance has set into play a campaign to topple failing states in Africa and the Pacific, establishing terrorist havens as they go. The whole thing reeks of the old communist push through Africa and South-East Asia in the fifties and sixties.” Johnson paused for a moment. “And, if these reports are true, Britain is bloody well helping them to do it!” He left his chair to pace the room. “The British people have little stomach left for the war on terror, Miss Halls. They’re tired. Far too many lives have been lost already, at home and abroad. Citizens and soldiers. I would go as far as to say that this could even bring down our government.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. Is the Secret Intelligence Service aware of all this?”

  “Oh yes,” he replied testily. “They have known for some time. The chief of SIS discussed it with Davenport personally. It seems Britain has already had a crack at getting to the bottom of it.”

  “And?”

  “And failed.”

  “So, what happens now, sir?”

  “Well,” replied Johnson after a few moments, returning to his seat. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, if you’re up for it?” He gave her a conspiratorial grin.

  “Well … of course,” she replied warily. “But what can I do?”

  “Davenport came to me as a trusted colleague. He smells a rat within those branches of government already involved and needs our help.”

  “Is he suggesting this is a mole hunt? Within the Foreign Office?”

  Johnson’s grave expression was her answer. Ari took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
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  “Davenport’s going to send a man into the middle of this private military company and he needs an experienced analyst – an ally on the ground for his man. You’d be reporting directly to me, of course, operating behind the scenes – trawling through books, files, personnel records and so on. Davenport’s man cannot know who you are. The merest hint of collusion could give you both away. Do you understand?”

  “Well, yes. Of course.”

  “Very good. This man recently returned from a mission in Australia. He received his briefing from Davenport earlier today. You’re to leave him to deal with the operational matters,” Johnson instructed.

  Ari’s heart was racing. This was completely unexpected, the reality of it began to dawn on her. She dreaded to ask, but already knew the answer. “Where?”

  “Malfajiri.” He fixed his eyes on her across the broad expanse of desk. “So, you’d better get organized. You’re on the next UN flight out of Gatwick tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 10

  GATWICK AIRPORT

  WEST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s come to an understanding. If I have to stop suddenly, any loose items that you may have lying around instantly become projectiles. They will fly around the cabin at great speed and they will hurt people. So, it’s your job to make sure that you secure your gear. If you don’t and it hurts someone, then I’ll hurt you. That’s my job.”

  The big South African pilot, dressed in simple navy blue overalls, black boots and a pale blue, well-worn United Nations baseball cap, well and truly commandeered the attention of his group of international passengers, mostly UN and assorted aid agency types. He had clambered down from the cockpit, and honored his captive audience by personally delivering the anything but standard safety spiel.

  The aircraft was a World Food Program C-130 Hercules converted to take passengers, with conventional aircraft seating rolled into the cabin area on pallets. It was a far cry from the red canvas strapping and tubular frames Morgan remembered from his days crammed into military C-130s, crushed between packs, parachutes and paratroopers. This was luxury by comparison. The words “GET IN, SIT DOWN, SHUT UP AND HANG ON!” were splashed irreverently in bold yellow lettering across the forward metal panel of the bulkhead, and for a moment, Morgan thought he’d mistakenly stepped onto an aircraft chartered by some famous rock band rather than the WFP. He put down the copy of Eric Ambler’s Passage of Arms he’d been reading to enjoy the informality of the briefing. It momentarily eased the general feeling of foreboding that had affected his mood since heading off from his home in Farnham earlier that morning.

  “My English may not be the same as your English,” the pilot continued, “so there’s lots of pretty pictures on these cards,” he held them aloft, “to show you what I just said.” And with that final piece of advice, he disappeared to join his co-pilot at the controls, leaving the passengers in the capable hands of the loadmaster.

  Just a few rows ahead of Morgan, Arena Halls sat back in her seat after what had to be the most engaging aircraft safety brief she’d ever experienced. This was not the first time she’d flown on a non-commercial aircraft but it was certainly the most entertaining. Back in her university days – not all that long ago – her natural facility for languages as well as her psychology and philosophy majors had drawn the interest of an old family friend who was the director of Emergency Response for a major international aid agency. With a thirst for adventure inherited from her globetrotting parents, primarily her mother, Ari had eagerly accepted his invitation to put her name on the agency’s volunteer register. Joining their developing psychosocial program to focus on the impact of critical incident stress on local populations, she took time away from her studies to deploy to Pakistan in 2005, and went on to assist in Tanzania in 2007. Those experiences had been the foundation for her appointment to the Foreign Office. And, while her ultimate objective was the Secret Intelligence Service, she at least had her mentor, Violet Ashcroft-James, who was an Oxonian alumni, to guide her. “Your time will come, dear,” Violet would often say. “We can’t rush these things, too much.” Meeting her through the Oxford University Society had been invaluable. Although, Ari dearly wished that she’d been able to contact her before leaving London this time.

  As the loadmaster continued the floorshow with a couple of coarse references to airsickness, Ari turned and casually scanned the passengers. Now, where did he go? Careful, don’t be too obvious, she told herself. Ah, there, right at the back, looking out of the window.

  She had seen him as he boarded. He was fairly unmissable, she thought, appraising him. The last to board, Alex Morgan had strolled between the rows of seats with intoxicating self-assuredness. He looked fit and strong. He was wearing some kind of combat-style jacket with zips and pockets all over it, a navy polo shirt and sandy-coloured cargo pants. Not classically handsome, he was good-looking in a knockabout kind of way. His face, under short, dark hair, held the hard edge of his profession, while retaining a boyish, mischievous quality. But it was the eyes that truly captured Ari. They were dark and intent, and the skin around them finely lined. She knew he was in his mid-thirties and had spent many years as a soldier. According to his dossier, Morgan was Australian – the son of a Welsh father and an Australian mother. He had begun his career as an officer in the Royal Australian Regiment and then at some point had left Australia to join the British Army, serving with the Parachute Regiment. He’d served in most of the world’s hotspots: East Timor with the Australians; Sierra Leone and Iraq with the British Paras; a stint with HQ Northern Ireland; and had even earnt a Military Cross in Afghanistan. He had been a major before being recruited to Intrepid.

  Ari knew the type: always far too cocky.

  At the onset of the usual pre-takeoff activity, she left her musings over the “Phantom Major”, as she privately referred to him, and her thoughts turned back to the task ahead. She wondered, not for the first time, if she wasn’t in well over her head, and struggled to understand exactly why Johnson had involved her in a matter that sat well beyond her skills and experience.

  A deep sense of unease pervaded her thoughts.

  *

  Morgan was relieved to have scored a row of three seats to himself. With his khaki bush jacket and black canvas grip on the seat beside him, he settled in as the big plane began to rumble and shake in preparation for takeoff. He looked out of the porthole window and saw the Gatwick ground crew preparing themselves for the deafening whine of the engines. He immediately squeezed the rubber earplugs that he’d been handed as he boarded into his ears. One by one, the four big props turned over as the pilot coaxed them to life. Minutes later, the Herc was thundering down the runway and lunging into the cold, gray sky. It was about 3000 miles to Malfajiri. He’d be in its capital, Cullentown, in just a few hours. Morgan caught the same last glimpse of England that Sean Collins must have, and, like his friend, he was headed straight for the dead center of hell on earth.

  Deciding to save the Ambler for later – dropping it instead onto the seat beside him – Morgan opted for The Telegraph, and returned to an article he’d been reading at the airport on the deteriorating situation in Malfajiri. It was no surprise that the story was short and buried in the section on world news. But there was something new in this story. It reported the death of a young English tourist whose body had been found horribly mutilated and dumped in the grounds of the British embassy. The parallels to the killing of Collins were clear, and Morgan knew only too well that the Whitehall spin doctors of the British intelligence community were behind the smoke screen. The situation was getting worse by the hour. The list of fatalities, locals and foreigners, kept rising, yet nobody wanted to know about Malfajiri.

  To the rest of the world, it was just another African nation on the verge of collapse. There’d be plenty of interest if the British Government stood accused of supplying a rebel army with the weapons and expertise to take down a democratically elected government, he thought. But thousands of innocent
Africans dying each day, caught in the crossfire between government and rebel troops? Apparently not newsworthy. And now, with the Malfajiri president due to arrive in London, cap in hand, seeking Britain’s support in the war against the rebels, would people finally start taking notice? Although, according to Davenport, with the arrival of Collins’s remains in London and the uncertainty over the fate of the other SIS agent, Lundt, plenty were only too keen to wipe their hands of the whole mess.

  The news of Sean Collins’s brutal murder continued to affect Morgan deeply. Given his choice of profession, he was conditioned to death’s inherent proximity. But for some reason, this latest addition to the tally of lost friends hit him hard. Was it a sign of age, or just fatigue resulting from a succession of back-to-back missions?

  With final thoughts of his mission, and the face of his dead friend at the forefront of his mind, Morgan dropped into a deeply troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  FOREIGN AND COMMONWEALTH OFFICE

  KING CHARLES STREET, LONDON

  “You called for me?”

  “Yes. Come in, Gregory, would you,” said Abraham Johnson.

  Gregory Cornell entered his acting director-general’s office, nervously fixing his thinning blond hair. He straightened a poorly cut gray jacket and dated paisley tie, patting his pockets for the cigarette he knew he could not smoke.

  Moving out from behind his desk, Johnson made a sweeping gesture and introduced the men who stood forebodingly in the center of the room. “This is Chief Superintendent Hargreaves of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Blades of MI5. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr. Gregory Cornell. Gregory’s area is responsible for Africa and our economic interests there. Been with us must be, what – twelve or thirteen years now, Gregory?” Johnson feigned interest, and in doing so, only highlighted his disdain.