Free A Covert War by Michael Parker Page A

talking with Cavendish.
    Marcus felt numb. It was a weird sensation and only lasted a few seconds, but it was if his entire body had lost all feeling. He shuddered and took a mouthful of beer and little prickles of fear seemed to run up and down his spine. His mind began to consider the implications of what he knew and what had happened. Cavendish had involved Susan Ellis in something that appeared to be generated by a spirit of kindness and generosity. But it was also open ended; there was no answer to the question he had put into Susan’s mind, not at home anyway. No, the answer to her brother’s situation lay abroad somewhere.
    Yesterday he saw Cavendish talking with James Purdy. Could there be a connection, he wondered between the grubby booklet Cavendish had handed to Susan and the member of Government that Marcus saw him with?
    He looked around the bar. There were several people in there, all watching the television screen as the reporter did his best to keep up the momentum of the sensational event that had taken place at the heart of government. He thought about the best way to handle what could be a potentially dangerous problem. Should he go to the police with a copy of the photograph? Probably not. He decided there was no way the police would consider anything sinister about the photograph of two men taking tea together. At least, they wouldn’t admit it. And they would probably suspect that Marcus had taken the photos for sinister motives. He knew then that if the police saw those pictures, he would be thrown in jail and left to rot.
    He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tried it again but the network was still down. He looked around for a public phone and saw one in the corner. It was reasonably quiet over there, so he picked up his beer and went across to the phone. He lifted the receiver off the rest and put it to his ear. He could hear a buzz. He dialled the number of MI6 after putting a one pound coin in the slot. It rang briefly.
    ‘Good morning, Intelligence Service. How can I help you?’
    ‘Could you put me through to Sir Giles Cavendish, please?’
    ‘I’m sorry sir, but Sir Giles will not be taking any calls today.’
    Marcus could understand why. ‘It’s rather important I speak to him,’ he told the receptionist. ‘I have something he should see.’
    ‘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