"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 Malfajiri government in dealing with their civil war, Chiltonford were selected and therefore endorsed by our Foreign Office to be given a free hand - along with a blank cheque - to train the Malfajiri 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 place an agent into Chiltonford to keep an eye on things."
"And?" The General lowered his most sceptical gaze at her.
"And," she continued sheepishly. "If the opportunity to deal with this Baptiste creature presented itself, then my agent was authorised 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. He topped up his coffee and remained silent as she continued.
"Everything was going to plan until a couple of months in, and my agent, 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, and none too gently, thrusting the cup and saucer away and making a demand that startled Davenport. "Haven't you anything stronger?"
Davenport looked across at Violet. He could see that there was something burning away at her, but she wasn't letting on. Crossing to the salver containing three decanters, he poured neat whisky into two tumblers and returned to che table. Wordlessly he handed her a glass and repositioned himself in the wing-back 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 authorised the deployment of a second agent, a new man, named Collins."
Ashcroft-James leaned down to retrieve a USB datastick from the tan handbag at her feet. She passed it across 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 a couple of 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 here, in London, on a depressingly cold grey Monday morning in late January, already missing the Aussie summer he'd left behind. Catching his reflection in the window of a car as it eased onto Broadway from Scotland Yard's secure car park, Morgan realised that he was well overdue for a haircut, and wondered idly if the boss would notice. Morgan stood beneath the famous revolving sign outside New Scotland Yard. He was feeling anything but a so-called defender of the faith. 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. Morgan's bones ached, and he felt he should be anywhere else but miserable bloody England. The wind and drizzle formed an uncompromising alliance to bombard him, so he kept his gloved hands buried deep within the pockets of his favourite old 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 Maj or Morgan," came agruff, sudden demand from behind. Morgan turned to see his Chief, General Davenport approaching through the guard post. "You can buy me a whisky," volunteered the General with an avuncular smile, "and we can talk shop over lunch."
Davenport, tall and solidly built, was clad in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, bespoke a little 'off Saville Row, under a heavy charcoal overcoat. His salt and pepper hair and perfectly kept beard gave him a regal appearance and 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?" enquired Morgan. "Well, I'm above ground and vertical. There's a lot to be said for that," commented General Davenport dryly.