Decoy (25 page)

The sun dipped low in the African sky, transforming the dust plains into lakes of gold. In the distance, electric lights shimmered, the highway was carrying trucks laden with people and goods away from the capital city. The rumble of traffic. Jack took a sip of the beer Spike had placed in front of him.

“Hell of a soldier, your pa.” he said, eying Jack carefully, taking in the beard, the lean frame. He wasn't fooled by the boy's composure, could sense the fierce anger behind his unnervingly still gaze. A ticking bomb if ever he saw one. Jack nodded. Didn't reply.

“Anyone else caught in the blast?”

“Taxi driver, a couple of passersby might have been injured.” Spike nodded.

“You ok? Want me to get a doctor? Get you checked out?”

“No. I need to get home. Things to do. You managed to sort the tickets and passports?” Spike nodded.

“Just need a photo.” He sighed, it was like sitting opposite Archie. The same stubborn, headstrong streak. He was worried for the boy. Worried he was out of his depth.

“You know who did it?”

“Yes.” Jack replied.

“And you think you can take them? Even though they got your pa?” Silence. The possibility he might fail hadn't even occurred to Jack. Only one thought since he dragged his weary body to the airstrip, climbed into the Cessna, flew the short distance to Burundi. Revenge. An unquenchable desire for revenge. Spike sensed his resolve. Knew there was no point in trying to reason with the boy.

“Anyone who can help you back home?” Jack shook his head, then paused, felt in his jacket pocket. The business card. Monsieur Blanc's P.O. box number.

“Possibly.” He said, the memory of the fat Chinaman strangely reassuring.

Spike wasn't convinced. “Let me tell you something about your pa, kid,” he said, lighting a cigarette. If he couldn't reason with the boy he could at least offer him some advice. “Archie was a hell of soldier. Terrible spy, but a hell of a soldier. You know the difference Jack? You know the difference between a soldier and a spy?” Jack shrugged, Spike took a deep drag on the cigarette.

“A soldier is always two people. The one who fights, who kills. And the one who comes home, the one who looks after his wife, his kids. He leaves the soldier on the battle field, has to, you can't bring him into your house.”

He paused, spat thoughtfully on the floor. “Two lives but he lives them separately. Otherwise he's fucked. A spook, now that's a different creature altogether.” He leaned in close to Jack, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“A spook lives two lives at the same time. Side by side. Has to. It's his job. Takes a real cold fish to be a good spook. A real sneaky bastard. A spook never leaves the battlefield.” He relaxed back into his chair, looked Jack square in the eye. “The man who got your dad Jack, is a spook, a spook through and through.”

Jack rubbed his hands over his eyes. His nose was beginning to sting. He wanted to use the phone.

“What are you Jack? A spook or a solider? You want to bring down the people who did this you're going to have to sleep with your eyes open. You won't be off the battlefield. Not till the big man's dead. Not till you've seen him buried and you've danced on his grave and checked his grimy little hands aren't pushing apart the soil.”

Jack nodded, eyes on the phone behind the bar, mind on Amanda. “Mind if I make a call?”

Amanda checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. She'd been there since three in the afternoon. Felt terrible. A freezing night spent in the car then an early morning drive to London. At the back of her mind the constant fear that someone was watching her, ready to give chase.

She'd dumped the car in the suburbs. A residential street near Mile End, headed to a greasy spoon round the corner and ordered a fry up. Enough change to keep herself in cups of tea until it was time to trek to central London. Jack had called her yesterday, told her to ditch the phone and the car and meet him in a public place. He was flying in later that afternoon. As long as he made it through customs.

The tourists came and went beneath the garish flashing billboards, posing for photographs. Adverts that must have seemed the height of consumer sophistication when they first appeared, part of the bright lights of London, now tired and irritating.

She'd reluctantly taken the camera on a couple of occasions, framed a picture of a smiling couple against the fountain before handing it back, a lump in her throat. Smile hiding the conflict inside of her, the hope Jack would be there to meet her, the fear something might have happened to him.

Dusk came quickly, the air noticeably colder as the faint warmth offered by the low sun was swallowed up in darkness. The streets were busier now, smart-suited Londoners making their way to bars and restaurants, chatting loudly on mobiles phones, keen for the world to know the exciting plans they had for the night ahead.

“Amanda,” a voice behind her. A hand on her shoulder. She turned into Jack's embrace, gripping him tightly, fists clenching the material of his jacket. She strained her neck back, looking up at him. The beard still there, cheeks even more hollow than they'd looked after the clinical trial, eyes that blazed with a new intensity. An unwavering resolution, something she hadn't seen before.

He stroked her long blond hair, breathed in its scent, the warmth of her body seeping through the thin clothes he was wearing. Kissed her lips, sweet with chapstick. A deep kiss, unashamed and unembarrassed.

“My father,” he said, pulling away, his voice cracked. “They killed my father.” Amanda pulled him close, didn't say anything, just held him. They stayed like that, oblivious to the movement all around them, the people pushing past, an attempt to block out the rest of the world.

“What do we do Jack, run away, call the Police?” she said eventually. Jack shrugged.

“Not the police,” he said, pressing her head against his shoulder, eyes scanning the people passing by, on the lookout once again.

“I need some warm clothes.” He shivered. “After that I thought we could pick up my dad's old car, take a trip to Paris. There's someone there who might be able to help us.”

The road ahead was quiet. Rush hour over. The sound of the engine and the tyres on the road mixed together. A familiar sound, constant, soporific.

“You should sleep, let me drive.” Amanda said. They were heading to Folkestone, Jack driving his dad's old Volvo picked up from the house in Croydon. His father's credit cards too. And some cash he'd found in a drawer in the hall. The speedometer was broken and never rose above thirty miles an hour. Had to be careful, judge his speed by the other drivers. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled over by the police for speeding.

He'd explained what happened, with his father and in the Congo. The details sounded unreal as he spoke them out loud.

“So Sir Clive thinks you're out of the picture? That it's just me left who can link him to Centurion, to the coltan?” Jack nodded grimly, eyes fixed on the road. Silence between them.

“He won't stop, Mands,” he said at last. “He won't stop.”

Amanda reached forward and twisted the radio dial. Anything to distract her. The damn thing didn't work. She slumped back in her seat.

“This man in Paris, the one we're going to see. You sure you can trust him?”

Jack shrugged. “Hope so. I guess you know you're in the shit when you have to go to an arms dealer for help.” Amanda thought for one moment he was making a joke, but the expression on his face was deadly serious.

It was half ten by the time they reached Folkestone. Too late to catch the last shuttle. They booked into a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of the town. Magnolia walls and cheap green carpets that built up with static and gave you electric shocks, but by the time they got to their room they couldn't have cared less. It was better than sleeping in the car, and the sudden realisation that they had the night together, alone, awoke in them the irresistible desire they had done their best to ignore whilst apart. They stood for a moment, eyes only able to focus on each other, the hotel room dissolving into a featureless blur around them.

They fell into a fervent embrace, gripping at each other's clothes, fingers seeking skin through material. The fear, the tension of the last few days transformed into an overwhelming energy. Jack hoisted her up, one arm tight underneath her thighs, banging her roughly against the plasterboard wall, his other hand dragging at her jeans, pushing, pulling them down round her ankles. His fingers flicked her underwear to one side as she grappled with his trousers, anxious to feel him uncoil, spring to life in her hands. She arched her neck backwards deliciously as he pierced her, she sighed with a sharp intake of breath, pinned to the wall.

A dull grey drizzle was falling when they left the next morning. It glinted in the orange glow of the car park lights. Six am, no one else up yet.

“Suppose I better get in the boot,” Amanda said somewhat reluctantly.

“Suppose you should.” Jack replied, “he'll have an alert out on your passport.” At least it was a decent size, he thought as he opened it up, pushed the cans of WD40 and old blankets to one side. Amanda climbed in, curling herself into a ball.

“Sorry about the smell of damp dogs,” he said

“Least of my worries,” she replied through gritted teeth.

Sir Clive poured himself a drink. Eight in the morning but it might as well have been eight in the evening. His body clock was shot. The last few days had taken it out of him. He'd have stormed through the sleepless nights as a young man. Not so now. They'd found the blue Golf on a side street. No news on the owner. Images from the one CCTV camera in the nearby area that were working had shown a tall blond figure entering a cafe.

He had a team working on footage taken from the local tube stations and streets, working through the night, but so far nothing. And there was a limit to the manpower he could allocate without drawing attention to the op.

He'd have to call Harvey and let him know the situation. He wasn't looking forward to the call, or the ear-bashing he'd get on the incompetence of MI6 field officers. Reluctantly he picked up the phone, savouring the single malt as he swirled it round his glass.

He checked his watch, would be about one in the morning L.A time. Too bad.

“Harvey. How are you? Sir Clive here.”

“Clivey-boy. Great to hear from you. We're doing good. Very good as it happens.” He sounded drunk. Sir Clive could hear music in the background, the thump of bass, voices chattering, glasses clinking, women laughing. Sounded like a party. “We've already freighted in enough coltan to fulfil our government contracts.” Harvey continued breezily. “Having a little party to celebrate. You sorted out that problem of yours yet?”

Sir Clive swallowed the last of the whisky. He could hear the background noise growing quieter, Harvey must have decided to head outside.

“Afraid not. Trail's gone cold.” Silence from Harvey. On a personal level he didn't have much to lose if some girl started mouthing off to the press about Sir Clive. Centurion's business practices might have been on the darker side of shady, but they were a billion dollar Security company, a manufacturer of high-tech weaponry, not a smoothie maker. No one expected them to be whiter than white. As long as they were profitable he had nothing to fear. No, it was Sir Clive's reputation that would be in tatters. Still, he didn't like the thought of his company's name being dragged through the mud, he liked his low profile.

“Soon as you hear something let me know. I want to send a team over. They won't get in your way, just a bit of additional back-up,”
in case she slips through your goddamn fingers one more time
, Harvey thought. He didn't need to say it, the inference was clear.

They passed through passport control without so much as a second glance, the Customs Officer looked quickly at Jack's passport then waved him through. Another Brit off on an early morning booze cruise. The man looked like he could do with a drink, the officer thought, taking in the pale face and the shadows under the eyes.

Twenty minutes in the tunnel then the motorway to Paris. A quick stop at a service station to buy some breakfast and a couple of maps, then another stop to buy a mobile phone with a pay-as-you-go SIM. It was lunchtime before they found the address Monsieur Blanc had provided, Avenue Jules Janin, a pretty side street interspersed with restaurants, a bakery and a charcuterie. There was a parking space about ten centimetres longer than the Volvo. After blocking the street for twenty minutes, Jack eventually manoeuvred the big car into the spot. He scribbled a hasty note on the back of an envelope he'd found in the foot well, climbed out and shoved it through the P.O box.

Monsieur Blanc, Jack Hartman here. Need some advice. Call me
.

He listed the number of the phone they'd bought underneath.

“What now?” Amanda said. Jack shrugged. “Now we just have to hope he's in town.”

They spent the afternoon strolling around Paris. An enforced bout of sightseeing that made them both uncomfortable. Outwardly doing their best impression of a carefree young couple on a city break, inside filled with restless anxiety.

They were in the Impressionist Galleries at the Musée D'Orsay when the call came, the loud ringtone attracting a host of disapproving looks.

“Jack?” A curious voice, high pitched and delicate, at odds with the well-rounded figure that produced it. Unmistakably Monsieur Blanc. He walked quickly towards the lifts, away from the crowds of tourists, Amanda following close behind.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So you made it out the jungle. My congratulations. Must have been quite an adventure.” His tone was half admiring, half wary.

“Not exactly a walk in the park.” Jack replied.

“No, I can imagine. But you made it out safely and now you have decided to come and see me.” He didn't ask why, didn't need to, it hung heavily enough at the end of the sentence without being spoken.

“I need your help,” Jack paused, looking round him. “There's something I need to take care of.”

“I see.” He was trying to work out what the boy was after. The sensible thing would be to leave well alone, let him fend for himself, deal with whatever mess he had got himself into. But the truth was he admired the lad, his peculiar resilience. And then there was the small matter of Centurion and Sir Clive cynically manipulating him, placing him directly in the line of fire. You simply didn't do things like that, not to people in the business. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, perhaps it might be interesting to help the boy out, send a message to Centurion at the same time.

“Where are you? I'll send a car.” He said decisively.

The sleek black Rolls Royce Phantom that pulled up alongside Jack and Amanda was hardly a discreet means of transport. Heavily tinted windows might have protected the passengers from prying eyes, but the size of the car gleaming imperiously in the evening sun meant it attracted the attention of the tourists lining up outside the museum.

“Mr.Hartman?” The driver asked, winding down the window. Jack peered in. Gustav was sitting in the driver's seat, awkward and uncomfortable in his Chauffeur's uniform.

“Bonsoir Gustav,” Jack replied, “how are things?”

“Fine,” Gustav mumbled. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you, you like a chauffeur.” Jack said as he opened the door for Amanda. The noise of the Paris street suddenly shut out as they found themselves cocooned in the plush interior. Thousands of pounds worth of hand-stitched leather and polished wood cosseting them. Even the carpet underfoot felt reassuringly soft.

“Friends in high places?” Amanda said, opening the drinks cabinet in front of her, noting the two bottles of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame. Jack shrugged, a tense smile in place. He hoped he was doing the right thing, still wasn't convinced how far he could trust Monsieur Blanc.

The Rolls Royce sped through the Paris streets, the horn blasting motorbikes and tiny French city cars out of its way. They pulled into a small courtyard in the exclusive seventh arrondisement. The residents of this quarter lived in houses, not apartments, the clearest sign they had climbed to the top of Parisian society.

Electronic gates closed smartly behind the Rolls. Gustav got out and escorted them to a set of double doors, heavy and wooden, studded with 18th century bronze detailing. He entered a security code into a keypad and waited as the door swung smoothly inwards.

“After you,” he said, his thick Eastern European accent covering the words with a layer of sarcasm he may or may not have intended. Jack and Amanda stepped into the marbled hallway. A sweeping stone staircase led upwards.

Life in 18th century palaces was lived on the first and second floors, servants and cooking facilities were relegated to the ground floor and cellar. It looked like that was one tradition Monsieur Blanc kept alive. He appeared at the top of the stairs, an elaborately embroidered silk housecoat over dark cashmere trousers.

“Jack, so pleased to see you, and I see you've brought a friend.” He cast an appraising look over Amanda, his expression not altogether disapproving.

Amanda looked at Jack, her features composed but her lips tight. He took her hand and led her up the stairs, following Monsieur Blanc through what appeared to be a hall of mirrors, heavily gilded with rococo flourishes, and into a salon that faced the courtyard. A young black girl sat in one of the chairs reading, a tall and strict-looking middle-aged woman peering over her shoulder.

“You remember Florence, Jack? I'm afraid there wasn't much left of her village, or for that matter her family, so I thought it best if she come with us.” The girl looked up solemnly from her reading and nodded at Jack.

“I've already enrolled her at the Lycée Henri IV. Despite her lack of formal education her tutors say she is exceptionally bright.”

“Hello again,” Jack said cheerily to the girl, hiding his surprise, but not his pleasure, at how well she looked. She smiled back, the seriousness of her expression suddenly vanished, transported into a young teenager again. Amanda was looking more than a little puzzled, wondering what sort of arms dealer decided to adopt random African children. Jack turned to Monsieur Blanc.

“Monsieur Blanc, I'd like you to meet Amanda Marshall, Dr. Amanda Marshall,” he said, correcting himself, a touch of pride in his voice.

Monsieur Blanc nodded, “Shall we go through to my study? I'd prefer it if we discuss business matters there. Gustav, will you ensure one of the kitchen staff brings us some refreshments?”