Abdul smiled, showing his white teeth beneath his beard. ‘The First Chapter is in a good position to take advantage of the war in Afghanistan and find homes for orphaned children. What can be so bad about that?’
‘At a price, no doubt,’ said David.
Abdul closed his mouth and changed his expression to one of a more philosophical stance, arching his bushy eyebrows in response to David’s cutting rejoinder.
‘There are people willing to pay, and I am willing to help.’ He got up from the table. ‘Enough now; time to leave.’
The brief discussion was over and it left David wondering if there was really a benevolent heart beating beneath Abdul’s powerful exterior. He doubted it; after all, Abdul was known for his ruthlessness in dealing with his enemies. And it left David wondering once again why he was being dragged round with the man like a token of some kind. And why on earth was he asked to write a letter to his sister?
His thoughts were cut short as Abdul’s men took David out of the house and bundled him into a Toyota Landcruiser. David wondered if Abdul had decided to change vehicles because of the pilotless drones that flew high overhead, watching the movements of known insurgents and warlords. He hoped and prayed that Abdul had not been picked up by the remotely controlled aircraft. If that was the case, he was sure their journey would end in death by a missile fired from the drone.
Perhaps, he thought; that was why Abdul was hauling him round the country? as protection from a missile attack. He slunk into his seat and began to feel an uncomfortable frisson of fear trickling down his back.
The team arrived and ushered Marcus and Cavendish from the building. Marcus wanted to protest but knew he was involved in something too big for him to deal with. He clambered into a white van that was waiting outside and as soon as he and Cavendish were settled into their seats, the van pulled out into traffic and sped away.
They motored out of the city and travelled for several miles into the countryside, travelling at normal speeds and obeying all the road signs and taking care with the varying traffic conditions. Marcus was impressed with the unspoken professionalism of Cavendish’s men.
Eventually the van pulled into the driveway of a house shaded by a combination of Oak and Elm trees. It stopped outside the front door and Cavendish immediately climbed out, beckoning Marcus to follow him.
Once the two men had got out of the van, it sped off, leaving them standing by the front entrance. As the door was opened for them, Cavendish looked at Marcus.
‘After you,’ he said, indicating that Marcus should go on ahead of him.
Marcus stepped into a large hallway. There was an umbrella and hat stand: very old fashioned, thought Marcus. On one wall was a mirror with a gilt frame. The carpet on the floor looked as though it had seen the passage of many feet over many years. It had a dull, military colour and lacked any kind of style. There was little else in the hallway to suggest a family might live there. And considering the game that Cavendish was in, Marcus doubted if anybody did; it was probably a safe house.
Cavendish led Marcus into a lounge which was sparsely furnished. It added to Marcus’s opinion that the house did indeed belong to the intelligence department. They were followed into the room by the man who had opened the door for them. He waited until both Marcus and Cavendish were seated.
‘Care for a drink?’ he asked.
Cavendish glanced at Marcus, giving him the opportunity to order something first.
‘Tea please; bog standard English.’
Cavendish grinned. ‘I think I’ll have a whisky and soda, thank you Eric. Oh, and would you bring in some first aid dressing? Our man needs a plaster.’
Marcus’s wound was superficial and he had almost forgotten about it, but he thought that it was probably the right thing to do; get it looked at.
Eric disappeared to get the drinks. Cavendish turned to Marcus.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we can talk.’
Marcus thought Cavendish looked more comfortable now; he had been trembling earlier, which Marcus put down to adrenalin after the shock of the attack. The man was too old for excitement really, he decided. He thought about what had happened knowing that only Cavendish could come up with the answers.
‘Who were those men?’ Marcus asked.
Cavendish shook his head. ‘I have no idea, but I’m sure I will find out.’
‘Who were they after, me or you?’
Cavendish arched his eyebrows. ‘My, you do value yourself highly,’ he said mockingly. ‘They were professionals. It had to be me they were after.’
Marcus thought that would be the case. ‘Not very good at their job then, were they?’
Cavendish frowned. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ he asked.
‘Do what?’
‘I’ve seen a lot of very skilful men in my career; hardened professionals who would walk through hell to defend their country and their colleagues. But they have all been trained professionals; taught how to react instinctively to any threat, and to deal with it without thinking of the consequences. You reacted like one of those men,’ Cavendish acknowledged. ‘You saved my life and your own simply by reacting and not thinking of the consequences. I must say you were exceptionally quick. So I say again; where did you learn to do that?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I’m a quiet sort of guy. I like to be easy come, easy go. Enjoy life. You know the sort of thing. I just get very pissed off when people try to spoil my day, that’s all.’
Cavendish allowed himself a rueful smile; seeing Marcus ‘pissed off’ was indeed a sight to behold. One he decided he might be able to make use of.
‘As you say, Blake, they were not very good at their job. If they had been, neither of us would be here now.’
‘So who were they?’ Marcus asked again. ‘If they weren’t after me they must have been after you. That makes them Russian then, right?’
Cavendish laughed out loud. ‘You’ve been reading too many spy books. If the Russians had wanted to dispose of me they would have been far more discreet and far more successful, I can assure you.’ He let the laughter subside and shook his head. Marcus waited for him to continue. ‘I don’t know who they were,’ he went on, ‘but I will find out.’
‘How?’ Marcus asked.
Cavendish looked at Marcus in surprise. ‘You only killed one of them; the other one is still alive. He might have a few bruises, Blake, but he is well enough to tell us what we want to know.’
There was a knock at the door and Eric walked in. He placed a tray on the table, nodded at Cavendish and left the room. Cavendish got up and poured out a cup of tea for Marcus. He brought it over to him and then retrieved his whisky and soda. He then went back to the tray and lifted a first aid box from it.
‘Take off your shirt, Blake; let’s see what’s needed.’
Very little was needed, in fact. Cavendish cleaned the wound and rubbed some salve on to it.’
‘You’ll live,’ he said and returned the first aid box to the table while Marcus put his shirt back on. Marcus then lifted his cup and sipped his tea, which was surprisingly good.
‘Suppose he doesn’t want to tell you anything?’ Marcus asked referring to the comment Cavendish had made about getting information from the man who had survived Marcus’s show of anger.
Cavendish tilted his head a little. ‘Oh, he will; I’ve no doubt about that.’
‘What will you do, barter with him? You know, freedom for some information?’
Cavendish said nothing.
‘Or will you torture him?’ Marcus said, and lifted his cup to his mouth.
‘How we get the information has nothing to do with you; just be assured that we will.’ Cavendish sounded quite abrupt.
Marcus decided to push him a little. ‘Rendition,’ he said.
Cavendish screwed his face up. ‘What?’
Marcus put his cup down. ‘Rendition. It’s what the Yanks have been doing; sending their prisoners to other countries who don’t give a toss about extracting information under torture.’ He studied Cavendish for a while. ‘But you don’t do that kind of thing in MI6, do you?’