Decoy (24 page)

Nick Clarke nodded at the doorman as he made his way out of the Sheraton hotel, dabbed his brow with a linen handkerchief. No luck so far. He'd tried all the upmarket places, they were grouped together round Nakasero Hill. Safety in numbers he supposed. Have to try the dives next, he thought grimly. Head to the market district. Time for an ice cold beer first? He glanced at his watch. Probably not. You could guarantee Sir Clive would phone him the minute he entered a bar.

He signalled a taxi, climbed in and wound down the window. Couldn't even use the Commission's official car and chauffeur. Too conspicuous. He'd just have to sweat it out like a plebe in a cab that smelt of tobacco and body odour. Hadn't done this type of gumshoe intelligence work for years and frankly he felt it a little beneath him. Besides, what did Sir expect him to do if he found them?
They need to stopped
, he'd said. Sounded ominous.

The cab pulled up outside a cheap, but clean looking place on Gaba road. Two bedraggled palm trees had been planted optimistically either side of the entrance. He told the driver to wait, pushed his way through the people gathered round the market stalls outside and headed into the hotel. A large lady smiled at him from behind a small desk, a ledger open in front of her. No one else around. Nick Clarke did his best to smile back.

“Good morning, I'm looking for a couple of guests of the Commission. I think they might have booked into the wrong hotel.” He passed over the photos of Jack and his father. The woman looked carefully at the photos, then back at Mr. Clarke, took in his harassed features, his crumpled suit.

“They checked in this morning. Would you like to leave a message?” Nick Clarke's heart leapt. Bingo.

“Actually I'd rather pass it on in person, if that's ok. What room are they in?” He said with a self-conscious little bow. He had no intention of going into their room, he just didn't want the receptionist telling Jack and Archie someone from the Commission had been looking for them. The receptionist looked him up and down, he looked sweaty and stressed with the slightly stooped posture that comes from sitting at a desk all day. She decided he probably was from the Commission.

“First floor, Room 3. On your left.”

“Thank you,” Nick replied, heading up the concrete staircase. There was a toilet at the end of the corridor. He walked swiftly towards it, ducked inside, pulled out his phone and called Sir Clive.

Field Officer Michaels peered out the window. An unnatural shadow cast at the end of the street. Something that hadn't been there a moment ago. Inky black lines were creeping across the pavement, a half-finished spider's web cast by the spokes of a bicycle wheel.
Come on
, he muttered to himself, the last of the files from the hard drive transferring to the USB stick. He needed to get away, plug the stick into his laptop and check through the data. Another glance out the window. Someone locking a bike to the railings, a tall slender figure. Stepping towards the house, key in lock.
Shit
. He said,
come on, come on
.

He pulled out the USB stick and shoved it into his pocket. Shut down the laptop. The sound of someone moving about downstairs. The rattle of keys dropped on a shelf. Lights clicking on and off. He stepped quickly out of the room and into the hallway. The figure heading up the stairs, floorboards creaking. Another door to his left. He opened it, quick as a flash, entered silently. Held his breath. The room was dark, sleeping figures on a bed in the corner of the room. They didn't stir.

The footsteps passed by, a creak of hinges. He could hear movement in the bedroom where he had been standing moments before. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, not wasting a second, quick feet padding down the stairs. Three quick strides and he was out in the street, sprinting to his car.

Amanda took her phone out of her pocket and placed it on the desk next to her laptop, saved the number Jack had called her on to speed dial. The blue LED on the front of the computer was flashing. Strange. She was certain she had shut it down before she left to go to the hospital. She opened it up, the screen flickered to life, sunset over a Bali beach the backdrop, snapped during the summer holidays.
Are you sure you want to shut down? There are files still open in another application.
The gently patronising tone of Windows's operating system. Maybe she hadn't closed it down properly. She was about to select ‘no' when a pop-up appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Temporary storage device ejected.

Amanda felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She got up and turned off the light, then headed to the window. No one outside. Something at the far end of the street. A fleeting shadow, so quick she wasn't sure what she had seen. Was her imagination playing tricks on her? She drew the curtains and turned on the lights. Desk lamp, bedside lamp. Inspected the room carefully. If someone had been there surely she would be able to tell? She was about to knock on her housemate's door but something distracted her. A tapping sound, cold air from downstairs.

She peered over the banister. The front door, not closed properly, banging against the wooden frame. She ran downstairs and closed it, then back to her bedroom as quick as she could, door locked behind her, on the phone to Jack.

Field Officer Michaels was scanning through the data downloaded from Amanda's computer. A key word search on the name Jack Hartman had brought up about 100 e-mails. Some between Jack and Amanda, others between her and her friends where he was mentioned by name. He filtered them by date, still nothing from the last few days. Then suddenly there it was. The message signed off from Uganda. Casual, almost off-hand in its affectionate tone. It was all he needed, thank goodness the girl hadn't deleted it.

“Sir Clive, hi, Officer Michaels here.” He said into his Bluetooth headpiece.

“Michaels. What have you got?” Sir Clive asked. He sensed he was going to have to make a difficult decision.

“She's in the know. He e-mailed her two days ago.” Michaels replied. No response from Sir Clive. Just a sigh.

“Very well. You know what you have to do.” Sir Clive said reluctantly. The fallout from the op was worse than he had thought, but there was no point tying himself in knots about it. Regret was something he intended to save for his retirement, along with a nice little nest egg to salve his conscience.

Jack and his father were getting ready to leave when the call came through.

“For you,” Archie said, passing the phone to Jack. Amanda's voice in his ear, she spoke quickly, short of breath, panicked.

“Jack, I don't know if I'm imagining things or what, but just now the front door wasn't closed properly and my laptop, I was sure I shut it down, but the light on the front was flashing,” she paused. “Now I'm saying it out loud it sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?”

After what he had been through in the previous few days nothing sounded ridiculous to Jack. His father looked at him sharply. “What's up?” He asked.

“Sounds like someone has been through Amanda's stuff,” Jack said, hand over the mouthpiece.

“Tell her to grab her passport, throw some things in a bag and get as far away from there as she can.”

“Who's with you Jack? I can hear someone in the background.” Amanda said.

“My dad. Long story. I'll explain later. Grab your passport and throw some clothes in a bag. Let your housemate know you need to borrow her car. I want you to drive as fast as you can in whatever direction you feel like.”

“Ok.” Amanda said weakly, rooting about in a drawer for her passport, finding it amongst a pile of old phone bills, not knowing what her housemate would say when she announced she was borrowing her car. Didn't matter. All that mattered was that she drove as hard as she could away from there. She could hear the voice talking to Jack again in the background.

“Oh and Amanda, I don't want you to worry, because you're right and it probably is nothing, but just to be on the safe side leave through the kitchen window, head down the back alley onto King Street.”

“Right,” she said, already downstairs, pulling at the latch on the window. Don't worry but climb out the window. Any other day of the week she'd have found it funny.

Field Officer Michaels drove as close as he could to Amanda's house, parked the car half on the road and half on the curb. Had to be quick. Disable the target, dump her on the back seat, cut her bike from the railings and shove it in the boot. He'd find a quiet road on the outskirts of town, smash her skull against the curb then drive over the bike. Leave as convincing an impression of an accident as he could manage. If the police smelt a hit and run they'd be less likely to suspect a murder.

Amanda heard the key enter the lock, sensed the urgency in the tap of metal on wood as the chub refused to give way. She could see the door move backwards and forwards as she struggled to open the kitchen window. Damn thing was painted shut. She gave it a shove with her shoulder, half-expecting the pane of glass to fall out and shatter on the gravelled yard below. The hinges finally gave way, window swinging outwards. A rattle from the hallway, another key, this time turning the chub lock. She climbed onto the work surface as quickly as she could, pulled herself through the window and tumbled to the ground on the other side. The drop was further than she remembered, and her ankle twisted awkwardly as she landed. The sound of footsteps heading quickly upstairs inside the house. Amanda didn't wait to find out what happened, just ran to the end of the garden, pulled herself over the wall and sprinted as fast as she could in the direction of her friend's old Volkswagen Golf. Key in the lock, door open, ignition turned. The engine revved, it sounded loud in the deserted street. Still too early for the rush hour traffic that clogged the narrow Cambridge roads, the buses that veered unsettlingly close to the historic buildings.

Her hand shook as she released the handbrake, car lurching forwards, wheels spinning. Drive, just drive, any direction as long as it gets you away from here, she thought.

Hotel Imperial, Kampala

“We need to get going, Jack,” his father said, hitching the rucksack onto his back and checking the room one last time. “She'll be ok. If they were searching her computer first it means she's not a direct target. There's breathing space.”

Jack nodded but didn't reply. He wasn't convinced, and his stomach was tying itself in knots. He had to know she was ok, had to know she'd got away.

They headed downstairs, no one in reception. His father peeled off a fifty-dollar bill from the wad in his pocket and shoved it into the ledger. Left the key on top. No point hanging around. Out into the street. the glare of the sun, colours bright, the bustle of the market. He flagged down a taxi. They climbed inside.

“The phone,” he said quickly. “We should dump it. There might be a trace on it.” Jack's mouth dropped. The fear he wouldn't be able to contact Amanda writ large on his face. His dad checked his watch, shoved a bundle of notes in his direction.

“There's a stall across the street. Grab a new one. Quickly.” Jack opened the door, stepped out, and that's when the bomb went off.

Nick Clarke was taken aback by the strength of the blast, a long time since he'd been this close to an explosion. He hadn't remembered the Russian-made bombs being quite so powerful. The car lifted and spun, then burst outwards in a blue-red ball of flame. It landed with a bone-crunching thud on the other side of the street.

He cast his eye over the chaos. No one inside the car could have survived, they'd be in pieces. Crowds were gathering, moving in slow motion, the shock of the blast dulling their senses. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't forgotten that. The taxi driver was collateral damage. Sir Clive's plan straight out of the rule book. Fit the cab with a remote device then pay a local driver to pick up your target. Chances are they wouldn't suspect anything, just assume they'd hailed a cab that happened to be passing. Ruthless but effective. He stubbed out his cigarette, turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. No one paid him the slightest attention.

Jack could feel someone tugging at his arm, a blurred figure above him. The woman from the hotel. He raised his head, waved her away, heaved himself onto the pavement. Her mouth was moving but he couldn't make out the words. Panic in the streets around him, people running, people bleeding, glass everywhere. He couldn't hear, just muffled sounds, the high-pitched ringing in his ears blocking out everything else.

The car was a wreck, metal torn and blackened. No sign of the driver. No sign of his father. He leant back against the wall, moving each of his fingers, they felt as if they belonged to someone else. Then his hands, massaging his wrists, stretching his arms, his legs. He had survived. His body was bruised but not broken.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet. One foot in front of the other, a dizziness in his brain. He walked towards a cafe, pushing his way through the crowd. Voices growing louder. Checked his watch. Still ticking. Maybe the Omega was lucky after all. Lucky for him at least. He pushed through the café door, the place empty. A quick wash in the sink. Clean up the cuts and the blood that had matted his beard, check his face in the mirror. Bruises forming below each eye. Must have broken his nose. In his mind one thought, one need. Revenge. First Burundi. Spike van de Weye. Passport and ticket home. Then he'd deal with Sir Clive.

Amanda braked hard as she pulled into the service station. A family getting out of their car, stepping into her path. They looked at her angrily. She swerved to avoid them. Two hours driving, fingers clamped to the steering wheel. Deep breaths as the car came to a standstill. She wound down the window. The journey a blur, the cars she had passed, miles of road disappearing underneath the tyres. She grabbed the phone from the seat beside her, unconsciously checked her appearance in the rear view mirror, called Jack. Her hand was shaking now. Come on Jack, pick up, pick up the phone.

Sir Clive flicked through the news channels, pausing as he came to the BBC world service. A street scene, messy, the wreckage of a car. He had the TV on mute but the headlines flashed along the bottom of the screen in a continuous stream.
Breaking news: Car bomb explodes in Kampala, two British tourists and one local man dead. Al Qaeda suspected. More soon.
The shot cut back to the newsreader behind her desk, serious face, interviewing a security expert with an equally serious face.

He turned off the TV, amazing how quickly they could be on a story in this day and age. Someone was always there with a camera phone, keen to capture the disaster, post it online, gain significance by association with another man's tragedy.

Nick Clarke had already been in contact. The success of the operation confirmed. Textbook stuff. The man would now be in charge of overseeing the UK's role in the investigation. Some things were beyond irony, Sir Clive thought as he flicked through the file on his desk. Amanda Marshall. He toyed with the idea of letting her go, calling off the search, then closed it decisively. The loose ends needed to be tied up. Too much at stake for him personally.

Time to put an alert out on the car, and all credit cards in her name. He had field officer Michaels on standby. It was just a matter of time. She was only an amateur after all.