Decoy (27 page)

The electronic ring of the phone was loud in the booth, Sir Clive almost jumped, then cursed himself for doing so. He picked up the receiver.

“There's a mobile taped to the booth. Un-tape it and climb over the cemetery wall. Wait for my instructions on the other side. If I see anyone follow you it's off.” The line went dead. Unmistakably Jack. Sir Clive felt a flush of anger. The impudent little shit, thinking he could order him about. He looked back down the street towards the parked car. The hooded figure still visible behind the steering wheel. Just you wait Jack, he thought, you won't know what's hit you, the minute you step out that car…

The figure in the car remained still, unmoving. Stalemate. Sir Clive decided he'd make a show of climbing over the wall. Anything to get the boy into the open. He reached under the phone and yanked the mobile from it, pushed open the glass doors and walked towards the wall. There were a couple of places he could get a foothold. He pulled himself up and over awkwardly.

Jack watched him from across the street, once he'd disappeared over the wall he called the mobile.

“Follow the central path for 100m, until you reach the grave of Monsieur Guillotine. I'll meet you there.” He said quickly, cutting Sir Clive off before he could begin an angry tirade. Jack wondered idly if he would understand the significance of the location, Monsieur Guillotine's grave, the inventor of the guillotine, a brutally efficient execution method.

He climbed smoothly over the wall, dropped noiselessly to the ground. The bulky silhouette of Sir Clive was moving quickly along flag-stoned path ahead of him. He stood still, watching him for a moment, shoulders hunched against the cold night air, breath coming in thick wheezy rasps. The man was vulnerable, his team dispatched. For one unsettling moment Jack felt the urge to let him be, to walk away. Then the memory of his father, killed without so much as a second thought. Anger within him. He ran silently towards Sir Clive.

“Stay exactly where you are,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. Sir Clive stood still, wondering how long it would be before Michaels and his team vaulted over the wall. Jack approached cautiously, pressed his gun into the thick cashmere of Sir Clive's coat.

“Slowly, very slowly, take out your gun and place it on the ground behind you,” Sir Clive snorted. Michaels really was testing his patience with this one. Reluctantly he withdrew his revolver from the shoulder holster and dropped it on the ground. Jack stepped forward and picked it up, lobbed it into the darkness. It landed with a clatter.

“What do you want Jack? What've you got on me?” He asked as he turned to face him, his expression full of contempt. Jack stepped back.

“You're playing with the professionals now boy. Better be sure of yourself.” Jack didn't respond. Sir Clive looked over his shoulder.

“You don't seriously think I came here without back-up do you?” He said.

Jack was silent, face half-obscured in the shadows, still as the statues that looked over the graves.

“Fool,” Sir Clive muttered under his breath, shaking his head, waiting impatiently for the swift and brutal cut Michaels would deliver to the boy. It didn't come. Jack remained upright, unmoved. His silence unnerving.

“Do you think your team got lost?” Jack asked at last, his voice quiet, contained. The night air was cold, close to freezing, his words carried on a misty cloud. Sir Clive cleared his throat, a touch of nervousness in the way he shifted his weight.

“Target in clear view, over, target in clear view.” He said as loud as he could. No one responded.

“Looks like they can't hear you, Sir Clive. Either that or they just don't care. Maybe MI6 doesn't pay enough?” He added innocently. Sir Clive caught the tacit reference to the money he received from Centurion. His steely confidence wavered.

“What do you want Jack?” He asked again, his voice less certain.

“Not much, Sir Clive, not much. Just for you to leave us alone. Me and Amanda.” Jack replied.

“In exchange for the files, whatever evidence it is you think you have?”

“Exactly.” Jack said, extracting the memory stick from his pocket, holding it up for Sir Clive to see. He nodded, glancing over Jack's shoulder.

“That's all?” he said.

“That's all.”

“Ok, Jack, ok. We can do that.” Sir Clive said, as if making a generous concession. He could barely believe his luck. He'd been expecting the boy to come up with all sorts of ridiculous demands, attempt to blackmail him, threaten to expose him.

“I have your word?” Jack said, stepping forwards, looking him in the eye. Sir Clive nodded, holding his gaze. The chap seemed to want some reassurance. He was perfectly happy to provide it. Trusting fool.

“You have my word,” he replied in his most sincere tone. Jack passed him the memory stick. For one brief moment their hands touched. Cold skin in the night air.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully.

“Not at all. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry about your father. Not my decision. Our American cousins I'm afraid,” Sir Clive lied smoothly, his voice reassuring, slipping the memory stick into his pocket. He watched as Jack turned and walked away. Couldn't believe his luck. He was wrong about needing a full team on this one, he could take care of the boy himself.

Sir Clive reached into his jacket and quietly pulled out his automatic pistol. The undersized weapon that fit neatly behind his wallet. Two quick shots to take out the boy, then he'd trace the girl. The loose ends. He raised the gun, Jack Hartman within his sights. Something distracted him. A hissing sound. The scent of almonds. Air around him suddenly misty. He felt his chest constricting, tried to speak but couldn't. Bright pin pricks of light dancing before his eyes, flickering round the impassive stone features of Monsieur Guillotine. The last thing he saw before the blackness swallowed him.

Jack quickened his pace, started to jog towards the cemetery gates. A quick glance over his shoulder. Monsieur Blanc's reputation for supplying highly efficient and lethal weaponry was well-founded, the canister of quick-release hydrogen cyanide in the memory stick casing had proved as effective as he claimed. Set the timer, twist the top and get yourself as far away as you can.

He vaulted over the cemetery gates and dropped down onto the pavement. Amanda was standing by the car. He ran towards her, hugging her close, wiping away the tears that rolled down her cheeks, feeling her body shudder.

“He went for the deal? Agreed to leave us alone?” Amanda asked, her eyes looked at him searchingly through the tears. Jack shrugged awkwardly.

“Sort of. It's fine. We're fine.” He said, not meeting her gaze, not wanting to tell her what he'd done.

“And the others, the ones watching the street, they won't come after us when they wake up?” Jack bit his lip.

“I'd be very surprised if they did,” he said grimly.

Epilogue

Brooke and Hall Solicitors, Grays Inn Square, London

Four weeks later

Jack sat stiffly in the upright wooden chair, a curiously musty smell mingling with the polish from the wood-panelled walls. The reassuring tick of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

He was surprised his father had appointed such a traditional and expensive firm of solicitors to be the executors of his estate, even more surprised he'd bothered to write a will at all.

“Your father only recently appointed us, and he only recently drafted his last will and testimony.” The solicitor had said. A grey-haired cobweb of a man with remarkably bright blue eyes. He spoke slowly and carefully, a faintly patronising tone to his voice, as if the young man in front of him would be confused by legal terms.

“His business dealings in the last few years generated a considerable sum of money and it was his intention that his estate pass directly and fully intact to you, his son. To that end he set up a number of financial trusts for which this firm, Brooke and Hall, is the trustee,” the solicitor took off his spectacles and peered at Jack, his tone confiding.

“There are various tax laws that impose a rather onerous burden on estates of this size. Your father prudently sought to side step as many of those as he could. Perfectly legal, you understand. But rather complex to manage.” Jack nodded, he didn't really understand, couldn't imagine his father had left him anything more than a couple of thousand pounds.

Two hours later, after a lengthy reading of the will and further explanations of the financial circumstances he had inherited, Jack stepped into the bright sunlight. He felt dazed, stunned. Seven and a half million pounds. Accumulated by his father in his drunken stock market dealings. Either he was very lucky, or very good. Maybe a bit a both. He was certainly reckless enough to take big risks. Jack smiled to himself, at least the old man had found something outside the army he was good at. Shame it wasn't till after mum left.

Amanda was waiting for him outside, lit from behind, a halo of light around her blond hair, she was stunningly beautiful.

“How did it go?” She asked, smiling at him speculatively. “Is it lunch at the Ritz or a fry-up at a greasy spoon?” He laughed.

“Ritz I suppose. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. Quite a tidy sum the old man left.” He paused, “I think we should go on a trip to celebrate, an Easter break. I've always wanted to drive across America,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “How does that grab you?”

Over lunch at a nearby pub he explained his plans. Amanda listened attentively. His enthusiasm took her by surprise, he seemed more excited about the trip than the inheritance. He kept mentioning Beverley Hills and how he'd like to spend a few days there, take in the sights. She was pretty sure there wasn't much to see in that part of Los Angeles, but she didn't want to disappoint him, and his eyes took on a peculiar intensity when he mentioned it.

She was right to be concerned. The enthusiasm that filled Jack wasn't for the holiday. It wasn't for the money he'd inherited. He was thinking about something Monsieur Blanc had told him, about Centurion. Where they were based. The head offices on Wiltshire Boulevard. He had some unfinished business he wanted to take care of.

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