Decoy (3 page)

“Jack, Jack can you hear me?” Jack looked up, a stiffness in his side. Concerned green eyes the colour of sand through a clear blue sea focused on him with a hushed intensity. Her hand supported the back of his head, a gentle, but firm hold. Amanda had never seemed more beautiful, one or two strands of blond hair had escaped her ponytail, a complex arrangement she managed to fix in place in a moment with a pencil. They tickled his neck. He smiled weakly.

“Sorry Amanda,” he whispered, “should've called,” she was feeling his pulse, looking intently at him. Didn't respond. Professional mode.

“I'm going to have to call an ambulance Jack, we need to get you examined.” He gripped her arm. The memory of the ward, the hospital beds flooding back.

“No, no Amanda. I'm alright. Just need a rest, some food. Maybe some clothes too?” he said, attempting the smile again. Amanda shook her head. She wasn't smiling, was she just checking him over out of professional duty? Her hand felt around underneath the blanket, pulled at something, his gown. He raised his eyebrows, starting to feel better already.

“This isn't standard hospital issue, at least not at any of the hospitals round here that I've worked in.” She said in an official tone, looking at the seam. “
Marcon Pharmaceuticals
.” Still in professional mode, pulling away from him.

“Hang on, I know that name. Isn't it a private research lab near Huntingdon?” She frowned, “Jack, tell me you didn't put yourself forward for drug testing?” She said, exasperation in her voice. Eyes disapproving. He shrugged, before he could say anything she added “of all the stupid, stupid things. You can't seriously have been that desperate for money?”

Jack closed his eyes, his mind on the poker game, the money he'd lost. At last, the reason why he'd been in the ward. A two-week clinical trial to raise the money to settle the debt. How else was he supposed to get four grand in a hurry? On balance probably not the cleverest thing he'd ever done.

“Come on,” Amanda said, shaking her head, helping him to his feet. “Let's get you some breakfast. Then we'll try and find you some clothes. If you're good,” she added, a hint of a smile on her lips.

As Amanda fried up bacon and eggs Jack wondered how much to tell her. The immediacy of her presence, her touch on his skin, had stepped in front of the terror, blocking it momentarily from view. He knew he had to tell someone what he'd seen, but the more time he spent in her presence the more unreal it seemed, the more he worried she would think him insane, certifiable.

“So what did they do to you at this place, any idea?” Amanda asked, pouring out a glass of orange juice and handing it to him. “Aside from making you wear that ridiculous gown. You'll know you'll have to forfeit the money if you run out on the trial half way through.

She looked at Jack closely. The hunted look in his eyes. It shocked her. She'd only known him as supremely confident, possibly a little too sure of himself, but she liked that. She needed a personality strong enough to stand up to her, physical strength to match. And the confidence seemed to be well-founded, top of the year group in Computer Science, Blues footballer, captain of the University boxing team. A trophy bloke used to getting his way with women, but the laddishness he displayed on occasion was tempered by an unusually perceptive intelligence.

“You ok?” She asked, passing him a plate. He nodded quickly, a little too quickly for it to be convincing. The hunted look not entirely banished.

“Fine, just starving. The bacon smells delicious.” Amanda turned on the small TV on the work surface. The dull drone of the newsreader mixed with the sizzling bacon.

“
Fire fighters are still attempting to bring a blaze at a research facility outside Cambridge under control. Police say an investigation will begin as soon as the building has been made safe to establish the cause, which appears to be the explosion of a chemical storage unit. It is thought there were a number of research staff in the building at the time of the incident, but the precise number of victims isn't yet known.”

The shot cut from the presenter to a wide angle view of the scene, flames still dancing over the rubble, unwilling to give up their hold on the cracked and charred concrete. The sign ‘Marcon Pharmaceuticals' sooted by smoke, letters peeling off in the heat.

Amanda nearly dropped the plates.

“Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Jack, Jack did you see that?” He wasn't listening, his eyes fixed on the screen. He reached out for her, hands shaking. “Listen, just promise me you'll listen, no matter how crazy this sounds. I'm about to tell you something and you sure as hell aren't going to believe it,” he said.

Ed Garner sat in the Copper Kettle café opposite King's College watching the students come and go. A cold, bright day. He checked his watch, half eight. Must be on their way to morning lectures, scarves trailing behind them, billowing coats, shadows long and untidy.

He'd sent Gavin MacCallister back to his regiment. A first rate soldier, but he stuck out a mile in this civilian context. It was the way he carried himself, dominating his surroundings, eyes constantly assessing the horizon, fists planted defensively on his hips. Might as well be wearing a regimental coat and bearskin. No, Ed was better off on his own for this one.

He stirred his tea and chewed away at a pastry. The tea had the unpleasant tannin tang of an unwashed pot. The pastry was stale. Some things didn't change, Ed thought ruefully, thinking back to his own university days 20 years ago. His tie was dark blue, not the light blue of Cambridge, but the carefree student life wasn't for him. He'd found himself frustrated by academic work, itching to get out there and make his mark on the world. He'd put all his energy into rowing and rugby. Latin and Greek had fallen by the wayside.

Still, he was confident enough in this environment to slip in and out of the Colleges unchallenged by overzealous porters. You just had to look like you belonged, and he could certainly pull that off. He'd even popped into Ryder and Amies to pick up a stuffy tweed jacket. A pair of green cords and brown brogues set off the image nicely. All he needed was a second-hand copy of
Ulysses
peering over the top of his jacket pocket and the academic uniform was complete.

Sir Clive had sent a picture of Jack to Ed's phone. It was taken before the drug trial began. They'd provided a series of mock-ups. With beard, without, shaved head. Ed had a good idea of the face he was looking for. He'd vary his locations later in the day. Try the College bar, the porter's lodge. For now, though, he was content to watch the street outside Jack's College, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Amidst the students he spotted something. Blond hair, moving in the opposite direction to everyone else. Hurrying when others were walking, pushing impatiently through a group of Japanese tourists. He had no reason to suspect her, no reason to follow her, but something about her wasn't quite right. Heading into College when others were heading out, the expression on her rather pleasant face a little too intent, a little too distracted. It might be nothing, but then again it might be something, Ed thought. And in this business it paid to trust your instincts. He looked again at the photo of Jack. Pulled out his phone.

“Sir Clive, Ed here. Do we know if our boy has a girlfriend?” The blond head approaching King's College. A brief pause, Sir Clive's voice barking an order at someone in the background.

“Mary's doing a quick search, social networking sites, message boards. Quite a few pics. Looks like he's popular with the ladies.”

“I'm after a blonde, tall, thin. Think Lana Turner.”

Aren't we all?
Sir Clive said under his breath. “We're sending through some photos now.”

“Thanks,” Ed said, stepping away from his table, leaving the half-eaten pastry to sweat it out in the sun streaming through the window. The girl was heading through the gateway of the College, he didn't have long. She might disappear into any of the buildings in First Court and he would be none the wiser.

He made his way across the cobbled street, through the imposing sandstone gateway, past the students milling about, self-consciously puffing away on hand rolled cigarettes. A quick check on the photos filling up the screen. Party scenes. Jack confidently posing with his arm around various girls. Then the blonde from the street. A different look on Jack's face. A nervousness, their hands touching. Someone had snapped them unawares.

She was already on the other side of the court, almost running, along the stone path towards the Cam. Ed made a conscious decision to cut across the grass, ignore the plethora of signs reminding him this was strictly forbidden. A memory from his Oxford days, only Senior Fellows and visiting dignitaries were allowed the privilege of walking across the manicured College lawns. Sod it, he thought. As long as you look the part you can get away with anything.

It didn't help, the woman was gone before he got to the other side. Only two paths she could have taken. One lined with bare winter trees, stark branches interlocking over the path, away towards the bridge. The other went left, towards student accommodation.

He walked slowly towards the bridge, doing his best impersonation of an academic ambling from one lecture to the next, pausing to watch the river flowing beneath. The punts ferrying early-rising tourists up and down the Cam. The woman hadn't gone this way. There was no one ahead of him. He turned round, resting his hands on the stone wall, his face in the warm sun.

A tour guide was heading his way, leading a party of French school children. He decided to wait it out, see if the target emerged from the building.

He didn't have to wait long. The woman reappeared, small suitcase in tow, bumping over the uneven paving slabs, same frenetic pace. Now Ed was more convinced. She was on her phone, he couldn't hear what she was saying but the fearful expression on her face told him this was no mere student late for a field trip.

He fell into step behind her. A difficult pace to maintain without drawing attention to yourself. Through the gates of King's, across the market square. It was busy now, people jostling, knocking against his shoulders, a busker wailing a terrible version of Bob Marley's Redemption Song outside the Guildhall. He was worried he might lose her, lose sight of her dark blue coat. Down a side road, onto St Andrew's Street. Past the shops selling hooded tops emblazoned with the University logo, surely only ever bought by American tourists. The centre of Cambridge was compact, pedestrianised. He could see the blond head bobbing up and down in the distance. Ed was confident she wasn't on to him. Far too intent on getting where she was going. They hurried across a park, Amanda checking her watch, checking her phone, Ed trying to balance proximity with discretion. It was difficult, he didn't know the town. At last she turned onto Jesus Lane, a quick dash up the steps to the front door, key at the ready, she was inside in a second.

Ed paused, clocking the house number. He walked past without reducing his pace, checked his watch as if he had somewhere important to be. A red phone booth across the street. He crossed the road quickly and took up position behind it, eyes on the house, fingers fumbling with his phone, punching in the number to HQ, the Field Support team.

“I need Ids on an address. 8 Jesus Lane. Names and pictures of whoever lives there.” He heard the field support officer typing quickly into their keyboard, searching through databases, cross-referencing the electoral roll, finding the most likely match.

“Sending profiles now. Two girls listed. One medical student, one social anthropologist. House is owned by the University.” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

Ed watched as the first face appeared on his screen. Amanda Marshall, blond hair, laughing. It was her alright.

“Can you send a list of contacts for Amanda Marshall? Immediate family, close friends. Names and addresses. I think she might be about to move out with the target and I want a handle on where they might be going.”

Ed put the phone back in his pocket. He was watching the house intently. Amanda appeared briefly at the first floor window, she grinned, turning towards the shadowy male face behind her, then pulled the curtains shut. Too much of a blur for him to be 100% positive, but he certainly resembled the photo of Jack. Ed checked his phone, read quickly through the additional data he'd been sent. He didn't notice the British Gas van that had pulled up and parked on the other side of the road. He didn't notice that nobody got out, that it had taken up, apparently by chance, the perfect position from which to watch the street. He was too busy reading the data and keeping an eye on his primary target, the house. Even experienced field operatives can make mistakes.

“Jack, Jack, where are you? How are you feeling?” Amanda called up the stairs, dropping her keys on the table in the hallway.

“Here,” he replied, “in here.” His voice was echoey, half-strangled by a series of ugly retches. She wrenched open the door, catching sight of him hunched over the toilet. “My God Jack, are you ok?”

“Been better Amanda, been better.” He managed to say, pulling himself slowly to his feet. He leant against the basin, took a deep breath and flushed his half-digested breakfast down the loo. Amanda looked concerned.

“I know that's not my best side, but there's no need to look quite so horrified,” he said. Humour. If in doubt make a dumb joke, he thought. Amanda laughed.

“I wasn't horrified, just concerned you might not be ready for solid food. You've been on a drip for three weeks. I should've realised. Come here,” she pressed a hand to his forehead, felt his pulse, looked into his eyes. His pale skin had taken on a sepia tinge. Combined with the beard he looked like a 19th century convict. A rugged but not entirely unappealing look, she thought.

“I called my friend at the hospital. They have an old x-ray machine in the research lab. Might be able to run you through it, try and locate whatever's inside you. See if there's a way of removing it.” She made a snipping gesture in the air as she spoke. Jack winced. She might be a brilliant trainee surgeon, but she didn't quite have a handle on the bedside manner yet.

Amanda had examined him before she left to get his clothes, pressing hard on his stomach, feeling the outline of his intestines through the skin, looking for anything that shouldn't be there. She'd found the lump pretty quickly; it felt like a tumour, but softer. Not visible at the surface of the skin but she had a pretty good idea where it was. She had done her best not to look too incredulous when he told her what he'd seen fall to the floor at Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Privately she thought the drugs they'd used to keep him under and the stress of the situation might have distorted his perception, but she was perfectly willing to concede there was some kind of bio-mechanical implant being tested.

“Have a shower and wash up, I'll fix you something to drink. Should keep you going for now.” He nodded, surprised at quite how effective she was at organising him, surprised that in this situation he didn't seem to mind. On any other day of the week he'd have run a mile.

He showered quickly and headed upstairs to her room. He hadn't bothered to shave, he wanted to get to Amanda's doctor friend as soon as possible, get the x-ray, find out what was inside of him, and dig it out.

“Hey you, what clothes did you find for me?” He asked, opening the door.

“Just a few things from the cupboard. In the suitcase over there. Here, drink this,” he took the glass she handed him. Tasted like sugary, salty water. Unpleasant. “What is it?” he asked, grimacing.

“Glucose, water, bit of sugar and salt. Don't be a baby and drink up.”

“Alright, alright. Are you this strict with all your patients?” He replied. “Only if they're naughty.” She said. He raised his eyebrows, “and if memory serves, Mr. Hartman, you were a very naughty boy,” she smiled innocently and pulled the curtains closed.

Jack got the hint. Despite the tiredness he was still a red-blooded male and Amanda was still an exceptionally enticing proposition. Her clothes quickly discarded on the bedroom floor, the soft light from behind emphasising the discrete pertness of her full breasts, her narrow waist. She stood naked, teasing, head tilted coquettishly to one side, and watched with satisfaction as he stood to attention. A soft giggle, she reached out and touched his excitement, running her hands over its length. “Glad to know you're pleased to see me,” she said.

Jack grunted and pulled her close, close enough to see her pupils dilate, to feel her breath quicken. Their lips met. His fingertips ran over her back, arched into him, down towards the soft, velvety cleft between her legs. She murmured at his caress. Sap roused, she pushed him away hard, enjoying the surprise in his eyes as he fell backwards onto the bed.

Straddled over his muscular body, she took him in carefully, up to the hilt, fulfilling the deep need inside of her. Three weeks. Three weeks since they'd last been together. She had missed him more than she'd known, been angrier at his unexplained absence than she was prepared to admit. Now she felt that anger assuaged in the thrusting rhythm of his hips. The physical memory of each other's body flooding back, surging through them. A profound and instinctive pleasure. A shared satisfaction.

Jack watched the dust particles that danced in the light through the curtains, one hand stroking Amanda's hair.

“Well, I can confirm that one part of you is still in perfect working order,” Amanda said, pulling him close.

“Sure you don't need to double check?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows.

“As your doctor Jack, I think it advisable you rest, but I will be recommending you resume this course of treatment at least three times a day.” She stretched luxuriously, a subtle red glow in her cheeks.

“Come on, I told my friend we'd be at the lab at Addenbrookes at half ten. Should be a cab waiting.” She got up and pulled on a pair of jeans and an old hooded top. Jack watched, astonished at the way she made even old clothes look casually chic, as if they'd been designed specifically for her.

“That's odd,” she said, opening the curtains.

“What is?” Jack replied, getting dressed.

“That man, standing there by the phone booth. I'm sure he was there earlier.” Jack shrugged.

“Really? Perhaps you have a secret admirer,” he said, heading downstairs. “Just going to grab myself something else to eat before we leave,” he called out over his shoulder.

His stomach was feeling better, but it wasn't food he was after. Privately he was worried by what Amanda said. He opened the drawers, careful not to make too much noise. He was looking for a knife. Something easily concealed, practical in a closed fist. One thought still nagged at him, the fear he hadn't shared, that they'd be after him. Whoever they were, whatever it was they wanted. He needed to be prepared, as prepared as he could be. He found a sturdy-looking kitchen knife with a short blade, wrapped the point in a jay cloth and stuffed it in his sock. A distant memory came back as he did so, childhood fears and the need to fend for himself.

Italy, an army base on the outskirts of Napoli. 13 years old. His dad stationed there with the regiment, dropping him off at the local school, telling him to learn some Italian and get on with it.
Sink or swim son
,
sink or swim
. Jack had swum, for a while at least. Fluent in Italian within a couple of months and the star of the class football team. But his success made him a target for the older boys. He took a couple of beatings on the way home from school. If his older brother had still been around things would have been different. But he wasn't.

Things turned nasty when one of the boys, out to impress the girls who gathered by the fountain in the town square, pulled a flick-knife and waved it in his face. More angry than afraid, Jack piled into him, dishing up a bloody nose, flooring the boy and scarpering. The boy vowed revenge, swore he would get his friends in the
Camorra
to cut him to pieces.

Jack knew enough about the honour of small-town Italian males to take the threat seriously. It had taken some persuading, but eventually he'd got one of the soldiers, a Geordie named Alfie, to show him how to handle a blade, how to fight dirty. Alfie had been busted out of Special Forces for insubordination—that was the official line. The truth was his commanding officer had been concerned he was taking a little too much pleasure in the more gruesome aspects of his work. A liability in the elite fighting squads of the SAS and SBS. But there was no denying his skill with a blade, and Jack was so quick to learn, so perfectly balanced, that Alfie almost forgot the deathly intent behind the lessons he was teaching, caught up in the simple pleasure of passing on his hard-earned and well-practised skill.

Jack didn't have to wait long to put those skills into practice. A quiet Sunday morning. The backstreet shortcut to the bakers. Church bells echoing down the shabby, careworn street. Washing criss-crossing the narrow gap between the buildings, flapping in the breeze. A moped sped past, then another. An ear-splitting Mosquito whine. More noise than performance, Jack thought. Typical Italians.

The two bikes stopped, 20 metres ahead, blocking the street. He looked behind him. Three people walking casually. Not boys, not teenagers, but men. Nowhere to go. They walked slowly, all the time in the world.

Three men against a 13-year-old boy. Jack shook his head; he was tall for his age and well-built, but this would be a walk-over. He felt for the flick knife in his jacket pocket. Could he really do it? He thought. Never mind that. Would he even get a chance? Five of them. He would be surrounded in a moment.

The most important thing to look for is how he carries himself, which side takes the weight.
Lesson number one. Alfie's voice coming back to him. All very well if you were fighting one person. The three men sauntered towards him. The leader was a wiry man with a cruel thin face and black hair swept back, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tracksuit top. He whistled tunelessly, atonal, irritating, before spitting on the ground in front of Jack.

“We're going to teach you a lesson,” he said, his voice dull, as if bored by the inevitability of the sadistic outcome he was about to inflict. Jack watched him closely, watched as he slowly drew a knife from his pocket, locked the blade in place, let it hang casually by his side. He was surprised to find he felt no fear, only a curious nervousness, a perverse excitement.

Surprise your attacker. Use any means at your disposal to put him off guard.
Lesson number two. Jack hunched his shoulders and stepped back, allowed his body to shake, bit hard into his lip so it bled, did his best to conjure up the paralysing fear he didn't feel. One final element, he let himself go, warm urine running down his leg, a dark stain forming on his trousers. The men laughed, the one holding the blade turned his head back to his friends, ridiculing him in the harsh sounds of the Neapolitan dialect.

Didn't matter. He'd taken his eyes off his target. Jack stepped forward quickly, the man's knife hand brushed aside, the blade up into his armpit, dragged down across his belly then onto the next man. The man was too stunned to react, watching in horror as handfuls of intestines slipped out of his friend's stupefied grasp.

Jack went low, two jabs to the thighs, the heel of the knife into the man's chin, the hard crack of the metal handle on the jaw bone. He dropped like a sack of semolina. The third man reached into his pocket, tried to adopt a fighting position. Too late. Jack dug the blade into his hand, twisting it on the way out just as he'd been taught, kicked as hard as could into his groin. The man collapsed.

The two mopeds fired up and raced towards him. One rider waved a golf club, swinging it clumsily at him. Jack ducked. The bike skidded, crashed into a doorway. Jack jumped over it, off down the street as fast as he could. At the end of the road a motor bike waited for him, revving its engine impatiently. Alfie sitting on it, no helmet, broad grin in place.

“Hurry up man. I canney wait all day.” Jack jumped onto the back, holding on tight.

“Ah think even ah wudda had a problem dealing with alla them fellas at wunce.” He said in his thick Geordie accent. Somehow Jack doubted that. A coldness had come over him. He felt neither elation nor regret. His heart rate barely raised above its resting rate throughout the entire episode. He felt in control. He knew he had it, the thing his father possessed, the thing his mother could never understand. The ability to take a quiet, emotionless satisfaction in a brutal task. A profound burden for a boy to carry into adulthood.

“Shit Alfie. I forgot to buy any bread,” he said.