Decoy (26 page)

Monsieur Blanc sat upright in a wingback chair behind his Philippe Starck desk, hands clasped thoughtfully under his chin, dessert trolley of cakes within easy reach. The study was an uneasy mix of ultra modern and traditional design. The intricate plaster cornicing and wood panelled walls were painted bright white to set off the angular and brightly coloured furniture.

He had listened to Jack's story with a great deal of interest and not a small amount of sympathy, and whilst he had nodded thoughtfully at Jack's talk of ensuring Amanda's safety, he understood that the boy's true motivation, the real nature of his mission, was revenge. Revenge for his father's death, revenge against Sir Clive for threatening the life of the woman he loved. It coursed through him like an electrical current. He didn't seem to care about what the man had put him through personally.

“You must play this carefully Jack. You are dealing with a very experienced and ruthless operator. He won't be easy to stop.” He reached for a cake, paused, hand wavering over a custard tart as if suddenly distracted. “Something occurs to me though,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk and extracting what looked like a memory stick from it, holding it up for Jack and Amanda to see.

“Sir Clive's deception was so complex,” he said thoughtfully. “So much time and effort to build the devices. To leak the information. For a bluff to be convincing it does not always need such elaborate props.” He threw the memory stick at Jack.

“What do you want me to do with it?” Jack said, catching it one-handed.

“I want you to be careful, Jack. It's my
Internet bomb
, could go off anytime,” his voice full of contempt. Jack frowned.

“Seriously?” he asked. Monsieur Blanc smiled.

“No, no it's not an Internet bomb. It's whatever we want. This is our bluff.”

“So we turn the tables. Make him think we have something on him. Beat him at his own game?” Jack said.

“Exactly. I take it you've played poker?” Amanda looked alarmed.

“The last time he played poker he ended up . . . ” she paused, thinking of the clinical trial Jack had taken part in to repay the money lost, the madness that had descended on their lives since then. “The last time he played poker he ended up here.” She said quietly. Jack reached over, squeezed her hand.

“With a good bluff we can draw Sir Clive in. Position him where we want.” Monsieur Blanc continued. “We'll convince him you hold information that compromises him. That you have the best hand.” He bit into the custard tart, “the fact that you've risen from the dead is a pretty good start,” his eyes filled with mirth, laughter suddenly catching the back of his throat, his whole body starting to shake.

“Sorry, I am sorry,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks, reaching for a serviette. Jack and Amanda looked on, surprised at his sudden outburst. He managed to regain control of himself, took a sip of water, sat back in his chair. He sighed.

“My apologies. Where was I? The memory stick. In my experience, intelligence officers are a very jumpy bunch, quick to believe the worst, paranoid bordering on sociopathic. We will let him know it contains sensitive information, get him where we want him. Set him up. And once we have him you may do with him as you wish.”

Jack looked at the memory stick, pale, white, nondescript.

“Good.” He said coldly.

Sir Clive had spent the morning briefing the Defence Select Committee on the success of his operation to remove Nbotou from power. He advised them he'd taken out a major threat to the UK's cyber security, said it was unfortunate this success hadn't been achieved without the loss of British lives, but that he was confident those brave men didn't die in vain. The Committee had given him a grilling, rightly so, the death of ten soldiers was not something to be taken lightly, but his military background meant his operational decisions were rarely challenged. He was back in his office by midday reading through e-mails when he saw the message:

Leave Amanda alone.

That was all. No sign off. No greeting. Sent from a Hotmail account. Sir Clive read it. Read it again. Drummed his fingers on the desk then reached into the top drawer. He pulled out the report he'd received from Nick Clarke. A nasty thought snagging at the back of his mind. Had the bodies been officially identified? There was no mention of it in the papers he'd been sent. He called the High Commission in Kampala. Nick wasn't there. Tried another number.

“Patrick Little speaking.”

“Patrick, hello. This is London, Sir Clive Mortimer. Nick's been helping us out with a rather tricky operation we've been running in the region.” Patrick stared miserably into the distance, wishing he hadn't picked up the phone. He didn't want to get involved in whatever ugly mess Nick had been asked to clean up.

“Nick's not available at the moment, how can I help?” He said, voice smooth as a silk cravat. One thing he was good at was sucking up to his superiors.

“I just wanted to know if you'd officially ID'ed the bodies of those two unfortunate tourists caught up in the blast.”

“Not as far I'm aware. Bits of one of them have been,” he tried to think of a way of putting it delicately, “reassembled. There should be something to send home. There's nothing on the man with him, but it was a powerful blast, he might have borne the brunt of it.”

“I see, thanks Patrick. Tell Nick to give me a call when he gets back.”
He might have borne the brunt of it.
Might have. Then again, he might just have sent him an e-mail.

He checked the message again. The e-mail address. He hadn't noticed it before: [email protected]. The coltan part was obvious, you didn't have to be a Cambridge student to work out that the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo was rich in the stuff, whoever had sent the message had obviously put two and two together, but why had they come up with 80? Surely there can't have been 79 e-mail addresses that already contained the word coltan?

He stepped away from his desk, eyes on the river, determined to work out the significance of the number. So little information in the message he was certain it must have a meaning.

The sky was grey and the river the same dull brown colour as a farmyard puddle. A man with a metal detector made his way slowly towards the water's edge, tiny from this distance, sweeping the detector in careful semi-circles over the silt. Sir Clive wondered if he ever found anything, settlements had existed on either side of the river for thousands of years, must be all sorts of debris amongst the stones, Victorian coins, Roman pots . . .

He stopped, walked quickly to the bookshelf. The number 80, the Roman army, a distant memory from Latin lessons at school. He picked an encyclopaedia from the shelf and flicked through it.

Although a Centurion (Centurio) in the Roman army initially commanded a centuria of men (100), that number later changed to 80.

Sir Clive closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. Was the number 80 really an oblique reference to Centurion? To his involvement with them? He couldn't quite believe Jack had made the connection, but then again he couldn't quite believe how difficult it was to kill the boy. He reached for his coat and hat. He was going to reply to the e-mail, but not from the office. An Internet café under the railway arches would do.

Jack, I know it's you. Let's not play games. Why don't we meet? I'm sure we can come to some form of agreement. Best to leave the ‘80' out of it. They're not as open to discussion as I am.

C.

He read it through, pleased with the tone. Authoritative but somehow confiding, on the boy's side, then clicked ‘send.' He pulled out his mobile. Time to call Harvey, let him know he'd need to send a team over sharpish. Things might be about to get messy. An e-mail pinged straight back. He put the phone down on the desk.

Paris. Pere LaChaise cemetery. Midnight tonight. Wait in the phone booth outside the gates. I have some files you might be interested in.

Sir Clive was taken aback. Hadn't been expecting that. He checked his watch. Almost 1 o'clock. Didn't give him much time. What files? Did he have something on him? Something he'd picked up in the jungle?

Jack had obviously decided he wanted to call the shots, no chance of Harvey sending help. At least he had Field Officer Michaels and his UK team on standby. He could have them ready within the hour, in position on the Paris street before well before midnight. He scrolled down, at the bottom of the page an image. A broken headpiece and blood splattered high-tech sat phone. The type used by the SAS, photographed against a clinical white background. Sir Clive glanced over his shoulder instinctively, this was not an e-mail he wanted anyone else seeing. Even if the boy had stumbled across one of the team's phones in the Congo, the data he'd be able to extract from it would be limited and encoded. He bit his lip, remembering Jack's background in Computer Sciences.

“Michaels,” he snapped into his phone, “four man team at the ready. We're going to Paris.”

Monsieur Blanc peered over Jack's shoulder, checking the e-mail had been sent. He'd asked Amanda to leave the room, much to her indignation.

“I assure you it is simply so that you do not know the finer points of how we intend to deal with Sir Clive. Trust me, if anything goes wrong, the less you know the better.” Amanda looked for support from Jack but he'd simply shrugged.

“I guess he's right,” he'd said, “if this goes wrong I don't want any of it coming back on you.”

Monsieur Blanc closed the door behind her, glanced at his watch. “Sir Clive will send some people to observe the location, probably be there in three hours if they use a helicopter. You'll need to be in place as soon as possible.” He paused, looking at Jack closely.

“You are sure you want to go through with this?” He asked.

“He killed my father. He wants to kill Amanda.” Jack replied simply. A hatred borne of cold logic, not passion. “What choice do I have?” Monsieur Blanc nodded. It wasn't a question.

“Fine,” he said, opening up a map of Paris and spreading it over his desk. “These are the key vantage points they are likely to occupy outside the cemetery. The best places from which to observe the phone booth. You'll need to work out a discreet route between them, moving as quickly as possible. Take out each operative before the others realise what's going on. May I suggest you use darts rather than bullets? I have a modified gun that fires just the right dose of hydrogen cyanide. You can even attach a scope. And I have something special you might like to use on Sir Clive.” Jack raised his eyebrows.

“Sounds lethal,” he said. Monsieur Blanc nodded.

“Oh it most certainly is, which is another reason why I suggested Amanda leave the room. In my experience doctors show a remarkable reluctance to end human life.”

“Mmm,” Jack mumbled noncommittally, eyes on the map, memorising the layout of the roads around the cemetery. He'd decide what to tell her later.

“Now, let me show you something,” Monsieur Blanc said, stepping theatrically away from the desk and sliding back one of the white wall panels. It opened to reveal a heavy-looking cast iron door, the sort you'd find on a bank vault.

“This house was built by a Monsieur Guillancourt. One of the most respected financiers in 18th century France. He had the safe constructed during the revolution. Didn't want any of the
paysans
getting their hands on his possessions. I've modified it slightly,” he said as he entered a code into a keypad on the front, waiting for it to open with the enthusiastic impatience of a child outside a toy store.

“This is where I keep my wares,” he said proudly, gesturing to the rows of high tech weaponry gleaming against the velvet-lined walls.

Field Officer Michaels and the rest of his crew sat stoney-faced in the Lynx helicopter, the noise of the blades made conversation nigh on impossible. He was concerned with their lack of preparation time. Despite Sir Clive's assurances they were dealing with an amateur he still liked to have a solid knowledge of the geography of the zone he was working in. He didn't know Paris well. Maps and building plans were no substitute for face time at the location. Sir Clive had told them to use knives, don't go shooting the boy or his girlfriend, it had to look like a robbery gone wrong. A panicked lunge from a gutter-crawling low life that happened to catch an artery, not a pre-meditated murder.

Michaels didn't like knives. Too messy. And you had to be close. Two of the team would need to hold the boy down whilst he put a blade to his neck. Give him a silenced Walther P99 any day.

He checked the map of the cemetery. It was in a run-down part of the city, a popular tourist attraction during the day but deserted at night. Sir Clive's brief involved the killing of two British citizens on French soil, there was no room for error.

“What are you thinking?” Sir Clive asked, raising his voice above the roar of the helicopter blades. Michaels shrugged.

“The sooner we get to the location the better,” he shouted back. “I want to have time to get the team in position.”

Jack cast a wary glance along the boulevard. He was seated in a hired car with a clear view of the street, discarded sandwich wrappers and crisp packets on the seat next to him. The first part of the plan, position yourself so you're clearly visible, let them know where you are. If they can see you they'll think they're in control, that they have the upper hand. Make them less cautious.

The boulevard was busy, a long queue of tourists outside the cemetery, even at this time of day. A steady of stream of Parisians going into the boulangerie on the corner, emerging with baguettes under their arm. Must be a decent baker, Jack thought hungrily, wishing he had nothing to worry about other than buying bread for an evening meal.

He checked the bus time table open on his lap. The number forty-three was due to pull up at quarter to, as it did every hour. So far the service had been pretty regular. He needed it to be on time tonight. It would give him the cover he needed. Until then the plan was to remain in position, exit the car every hour or so and furtively look up and down the street, acting out the role of amateur spy. He'd bought a cap and hooded top but shaved off the beard, under his hat his hair was dyed dark brown. An obvious attempt to disguise himself, clothes that served to draw attention to him, made him look as if he didn't want to be recognised. All part of the plan.

He kept his eyes on the street, watching for the faces that didn't change. The people who lingered a little too long over their coffee, who seemed to take an unnatural amount of interest in the newspaper they were reading. Anything out of the ordinary.

He was pretty sure he'd identified two of them. One sat in a car on a side road that had a direct view of the phone booth. He'd seen him when he went to the café. A youngish man in jeans and tee-shirt texting in the driver's seat. Still there when Jack went to the café an hour later. No one spent that long sending a text.

“Seen any others?” Amanda's voice from the foot well on the passenger side, her body curled into a tight ball, covered from view by a loose blanket.

Jack put a hand over his mouth before he replied. Didn't want to give any indication there was someone else in the car, especially not someone dressed in exactly the same clothes as he was, hood pulled low over her face, peak of the cap poking out from under it.

“Man in the queue for the cemetery. Whenever he gets close to the front he excuses himself and crosses the street. Disappears into a shop then rejoins the back of the queue.”

He moved his hand away from his mouth, careful not to look down. Amanda was baring up well, her long slender limbs curled into an uncomfortable ball in the tiny space.

Sir Clive was drinking coffee in a hotel room at the far end of the street, field officer Michaels with him. They were in radio contact with the three agents on the ground. So far everything was going to plan. They'd identified the target, confirmed he looked jumpy. Busy road. Central Paris boulevard. No chance of slipping discretely into the back seat and killing the boy, not if they wanted this to look like a mugging gone wrong. Best to sit it out.

Amanda tried to stretch her legs as best she could in the tiny space. They were beginning to cramp. The minutes ticked by with interminable slowness. Past eleven pm now, the street almost empty. A few stragglers at the café.

“Can you still see them?” She asked quietly.

“Two in doorway either side of the baker. Other two in the car. No sign of Sir Clive.”

“You're sure you want to do this?” She asked, her voice nervous. Jack didn't reply. This wasn't a question of what he wanted, it was a question of what needed to be done. He checked his watch. Each second taking an age to tick by. How did people make a career of this? If the enemy didn't kill you the boredom would.

“I'm going on one last trip to the tabac across the road.” He said eventually. “Let them see me, remind them what I'm wearing.”

The MI6 officers watched the dark figure climb out the car, run quickly across the street and into the shop, shoulders hunched, cap pulled low over his eyes. He emerged a few moments later with a pack of chewing gum and a bottle of water.

“Ready?” He said under his breath to Amanda as he opened the car door. “The bus is approaching.” He pulled the door shut, checked his rear view mirror, bright lights heading towards them. He loosened his belt, working his trousers down to his ankles, another pair underneath, pale-coloured. Now the black hooded jacket, discretely unzipped. The bus was almost on them.

“Three, two, one . . . ” A hiss of airbrakes. The bus alongside, blocking them from view, doors opening, passengers getting out. Amanda clambered up quickly from the foot well, hands on the steering wheel, yanking herself up, muscles screaming in pain at the sudden movement into the driver's seat, same clothes as Jack had been wearing, an extra jumper to bulk out the hooded top, cushion under the seat. Her hair tucked up into the cap, face hidden by shadow. The changeover, exactly as they'd practised. Jack slipped out stealthily in the same movement, closing the door quietly behind him. The bus pulled away.

The MI6 officers kept their eyes on the car. The figure behind the wheel. They paid little attention to the passengers that got off the bus, to the tall dark-haired figure in a light-coloured business suit, briefcase swinging by his side, crossing the street towards them. They heard him though, heard the cheerful whistle, the Marseillaise of all things, and the shoes click-clacking on the pavement. Did their best to ignore it. Eyes on the man in the car. Only 10 minutes till the meeting. Midnight by the phone booth. This looked like it might turn out to be straightforward, a clean kill. The moment the boy approached Sir Clive they'd take him out.

Jack yanked the gun from the tape that held it to the side of the briefcase. The weapon was bulky and awkward. Modified to fit the darts. He didn't slow his pace, fired two silenced shots into the first doorway, kept moving, aware of the dark figure that slumped backwards. Two more shots into the second doorway. Same result. This time he caught a sharp intake of breath from the victim. The paralysing effects of the serum. As lethal and effective as Monsieur Blanc had claimed. He turned the corner, walked towards the parked car, kept his pace constant. Just as he'd suspected. Two figures inside. He walked past without glancing in, same rhythm to his echoing footsteps, same whistle, down the street and into an alley.

Sir Clive walked cautiously towards the phone booth, glancing at his watch. One minute to midnight. No word from the two officers on the street but the men in the car confirmed he could proceed as planned. He could see the parked Renault that contained Jack Hartman. The hooded figure hunched over the wheel. He pulled at the stiff plate-glass door, it protested with a noisy screech, stepped into the phone booth.

“In position and waiting,” he said under his breath, trusting the mic taped to his neck would pick it up.

“We have you covered. Once the boy leaves the car we'll be on him.”

Jack peered over the rear passenger window of the MI6 Officers' car, watching the two shadowy forms seated inside, one of them speaking into a walkie-talkie. It was them, no doubt about it. He'd crept back silently in his socks, heart thumping louder than the soft pad of his feet on the pavement. Crouched low, he placed one hand on the door handle, the other on the gun. If it was locked he'd have to smash the glass, if not two shots per passenger. Only one needed, the second to be sure. His hand pushed gently upwards, expecting resistance. None came, the latch released, door opening. Poor fools, they really weren't expecting the battle to come to them. Jack fired, emptying the gun. Body shot and a leg shot for each officer, just in case they'd decided to put on body armour. He stepped away from the car. All over in a couple of seconds, at least for them. One hand on his phone, dialling the number of the booth across the street, walking cautiously back towards the boulevard.