Decoy (5 page)

Sir Clive looked down at the hospital, the helicopter circling high above it. Two concrete shoeboxes placed side to end in a ‘T' shape. Tiny cars dotted around it, brightly coloured in neat rows, pieces of candy from this height. The pilot positioned for his descent, the large yellow ‘H' of the heliport seeming to move upwards to meet them. A jolt as they touched down.

Sir Clive was out the door, running quickly across the heliport, blades still swirling above his head. He held out his hand in greeting. The hospital manager took it and nodded warily. To say he'd been surprised to receive a call only a few minutes earlier from the Director of Cyber Crime at MI6 would be an understatement.

“You said on the phone there was no danger to our staff or patients. Are you absolutely certain?” He shouted over the whir of the blades, still spinning. Sir Clive nodded.

“No danger, but time is of the essence. Take me to the main entrance.” The hospital manager led him inside, pressed the button to call the lift.

“I suppose you can't tell me what any of this is about?” He asked. He didn't expect to get any answers, but it seemed silly to wait in silence. Sir Clive looked at him carefully, taking in the intelligent brown eyes, a hint of a mischievousness in the raised eyebrow.

“Someone arrived here earlier who's in danger. I need to find them and get them to safety.” He said flatly.

The lift doors pinged open. The Hospital Manager was usually a good judge of character, but he had no idea whether this man was telling the truth or not.

“Someone who checked in as a patient?” He asked, following Sir Clive into the lift. If the answer to this question were yes it would raise all sorts of ethical questions. He had a duty of care to his patients, he couldn't simply let some Secret Service man wheel them away on a trolley because he took a fancy to it. Sir Clive shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said. The doors opened.

“Quickest way to reception please,” he said. The manager pointed to his left. “Straight on then second right.” Sir Clive was off, jogging along the corridor.

A queue of people were waiting at reception, but he walked to the front, selected one of the false ID cards from inside his pocket and flashed it at the receptionist. She read the name, Detective Fisher from Cambridge CID. Sir Clive leant in close over the counter, smiling at her broadly. He spoke softly and quickly.

“Now my dear, earlier this morning maybe 20, 30 minutes ago a man and a woman walked through that door, early twenties, him over six foot, the woman blond, attractive. Ring any bells?”

The receptionist looked blank, then worried. “Why, what've they done?” Sir Clive leant in a little closer. “Now that's not really answering my question, is it, Yasmina,” he said, reading her name badge. A hint of steel in his voice. The receptionist frowned. “Half an hour ago maybe, they went to one of the research labs.” She frowned, “Someone came to meet them, who was it . . . Anne, Dr. Anne Fitzgerald. Works in one of the labs. You'll need a pass to get there though.”

“I'll take yours,” he said reaching over the desk, pulling it quickly from her.

“Hey! Wait! you can't just, he can't just, he can't just take that can he?” Sir Clive was gone, through the double doors and off to the lab. The woman who'd been standing in the queue behind him shrugged, “I'd say he can, unless you're going to stop him.”

Sir Clive watched the operation through the window in the door, turning his head to one side so his breath didn't mist the glass. One hand on his weapon, the other adjusting his ear piece. The connection with the ops room kept cutting out. He was quietly impressed by the grim determination of the surgeon, quick, skilful fingers. And the resolution of the patient. No point going in just yet. Let them finish their work. If the two people operating on the boy were as professional as they seemed then the device would be extracted whole and unharmed. Timing was everything.

Dorchester Hotel, London

Monsieur Blanc flicked shut his mobile phone, handing it back to his assistant. Mid-day. The hour at which he liked to drink an aperitif before settling down to an unusual and idiosyncratic choice of lunch

It had been a difficult phone call. The people he was working for did not appreciate mistakes. His professional reputation would be in tatters if he could not bring in the final device. They had been quite clear on that, the ten units worked together, forming a virtual network. Without the last one, the others were useless. If he couldn't bring in the device his career as an arms dealer would be over.All those years spent acquiring contacts, cultivating sources, all that time and energy wasted. They would ensure he didn't work again, not on any significant contracts. He'd be back to hawking suitcases full of AK 47s round Africa, trying not to get ripped off by dictators and Somali pirates. No, he did not want a return to those days, he had worked too hard.

A tap at the door. He opened it. The waiter wheeled in a trolley with his lunch. His special order. One of the things he loved about London hotels was their discretion. Anything could be provided for the right price. He waved the waiter away with a fifty-pound note. A generous tipper, always had been. He liked to remove the cloche himself, savour the delicacies. He signalled to his two assistants to leave the room. He preferred to eat this dish alone.

The aroma a tannin and iron tang from the meat. Hint of sweetness behind it. He brought the plate close to his nostrils and breathed in deeply.

Pigeon hearts. Uncooked. A rich reddy-brown, and still warm from the breast of the birds. Next to them slivers of the raw breast meat. He ate it with a dash of lemon and a pinch of salt, washed the whole lot down with a glass of warm rice wine. There was no comparable taste, no other dish that had the power to transport him so vividly back to his childhood in China.

Born to peasant stock on the outskirts of Shanghai, he had eked out a precarious existence in the city slums, dodging the fists of his drunken father and the snapping jaws of the rabid dogs that crawled along the gutters. Only his skill at catching birds had saved him from a premature malnourished death.

He was half-starved by the time he worked out his system. Scrambling up the bamboo scaffold outside a new office block, a stolen pot of pungent glue under one arm and a small paper bag filled with as many crumbs as he could gather from the floor of the bakery in his hand.

He had spread the glue over a section of roof, dropping the crumbs evenly into the thick paste, then retreated to a nearby vent to watch. His hunger a hammer banging on anvil inside his belly. He did not have to wait long. A cooing bird pitter-pattered its way across the roof, head bobbing up and down in dumb optimism. One foot stuck to the glue. The pigeon paused, momentarily confused, cooing faster. He dived on it, wrenched the head from the body, half-starved he tore at the feathery flesh with his finger nails, cracking through the bones, warm blood mingling with the dirt on his grimy face.

Monsieur Blanc dabbed delicately at his lips with the linen handkerchief. The hearts and breast meat tasted as delicious today as they had all those years ago.

He had returned to Shanghai just a few months before on business. The cityscape was transformed, no longer recognisable from his childhood memories. Towers of glass and steel rose ever upwards, announcing their ambition to the world, challenging others to catch up. At street level people hurried, suited and booted, chatting quickly on their mobiles, a brash confidence underpinning their movements, their interaction with one another.

On a whim he had sought out the Catholic mission that had taken him in as a boy. It was still there, the red brick Victorian building sandwiched between towering concrete and glass structures. As well it should be, given the generous donation he made to them on an annual basis. They had plucked him from the streets, fattened him up, given him a good Christian education. English and French and Bible stories were his daily lessons. Why they had chosen him instead of one of the other countless urchins scurrying along in the alleyways and backstreets of the city he did not know, perhaps he was simply the most pathetic- and forlorn-looking child they could find. Whatever the reason, he had excelled at his lessons, his quickness at learning endearing him to them, somehow confirming in their minds the truthfulness of their teaching. They rewarded him with cakes and pastries baked by one of the nuns every Saturday afternoon.

It was the Catholic church that had sponsored his move to France, proposing a career in the priesthood, training at a seminary in Paris. They were keen to have a native doing the good work, spreading The Word in China. He had jumped at the chance, the opportunity to travel, to live in a city like Paris. He was happy to profess belief in their golden-haired Jesus, become a
fisher of men
if it meant he could escape the slums of Shanghai for good.

Paris had other ideas. He had not been there two weeks before the city took him over, seducing him with its bars and bordellos, its galleries and cafes. By day he attended theology class. By night he chatted to streetwalkers, to the small-time crooks who gathered in Rue Mouffetarde, the chancers, the students, the bourgeois intellectuals who fancied a walk on the wild side. It was here that he began to make money, small amounts at first, translation services for illegal Chinese immigrants, interpreting for local businessmen. A bit of extra pocket money, cash in hand. He liked the feel of it, a new sensation. The more he made, the further he felt from the poverty of his childhood.

He shook his head as if trying to clear the reminiscence. Memories, good and bad, came flooding back if you opened the door even a crack. There was work to do, no time for idling. He walked over to the window, glancing at the traffic streaming down Park Lane and checked his phone. A message from his source at MI6.
Target at Addenbrookes Hospital.
The constant updates she provided were invaluable. So much better than that useless bunch of ex-soldiers and the disgraced doctor he had put together for this mission.

MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

For the second time in two days, Jack awoke not knowing where he was. This time the room looked less like a hospital ward, more like a prison cell. Unforgiving grey walls. No clock and no natural light. He jerked upwards, and cold metal cuffs cut painfully into his wrists, rattling against the wire bed frame. Two lines of stitches below his stomach, crossing at the centre. A dull ache under the skin, thread pulling painfully as he moved. The door swung open.

“Good evening, Mr. Hartman,” Sir Clive strode across the room, quickly unfastening one set of handcuffs. He'd seen enough footage of Jack fighting to step smartly back once he'd done so, but still proffered his right hand in greeting. Jack looked at him like he was mad.
Where was he, and more to the point, where was Amanda?

“The girl I was with, her friend, what did you do to them? I swear if you've so much as touched her . . . ” A vein in his forehead bulged.

“No need to worry, Mr. Hartman. You're with the good guys. MI6. They're being debriefed at the moment. A female officer is handling it. No cause for concern. Very promising surgeon, your lady friend. Great job under difficult circumstances.” He gestured vaguely at the stitching. Jack breathed loudly through his nose.

“Now, am I safe to unlock you? You're not going to attempt one of your karate style attacks are you?” Sir Clive said this jokingly, keeping half an eye on the boy. He was reasonably confident he could handle him in a fight, but there was no point taking any chances. Jack relaxed a fraction. Sir Clive unlocked the cuffs, watching him warily as he rubbed his wrists.

“You and I are going to have a little chat, Jack. Not here. Walls have ears and all that. There's a restaurant round the corner that'll do fine. I expect you're starving. Here,” he flung a suit and fresh shirt at Jack. “Try not to bleed on it, we don't have a limitless budget.”

Was that a joke?
Jack thought. The man's attempt at familiarity grated.

“I'm not going anywhere till I've seen Amanda, I want proof she's ok.” He said.

“I thought you might say that. We'll call in at the debriefing room. Give you a chance to say hello. Come along now.”

Jack followed, pulling on the clothes gingerly, trying not to wince at the pain in his belly. He'd been bandaged up, and they must have pumped him full of painkillers. Sir Clive rapped his knuckles on an anonymous looking door. Amanda appeared, “Jack!” she hugged him close. Sir Clive looked bemused.

“You alright?” Jack asked. He could see she'd been crying.

“Fine. No thanks to Mr. wave-a-gun-in-your-face,” she said, pointing at Sir Clive. He raised his eyebrows. “Oh come now, I think that's a little unfair. It was hardly the time for explanations. And I let you and your friend have a ride in my helicopter.” Jack turned towards him, looked at him coldly.

“Steady Jack,” Sir Clive said evenly. As close to a threat as he needed to get. His body language said he was ready to fight, perfectly balanced, shoulders back, arms hanging loosely by his sides.

“All I did was point a gun gently in their direction. A little encouragement to get them moving. There was no time for explanations. We weren't the only ones after you, as I'm sure you're fully aware.” He added. Jack stepped down, turning his attention to Amanda.

“I'm sorry about this. About all of this. I should never have got you involved. Should've gone home.” Amanda shrugged.

“Don't be silly.”

“A-hem,” Sir Clive cleared his throat noisily. “I hate to break up this touching scene but I'd really like to get a move on. We should be finished with both of you in a few hours.” What was it with young people today and their insistence on public displays of affection? So very American, he thought derisively.

Amanda ignored Sir Clive and hugged Jack, kissing him briefly on the lips. “Doesn't hurt too much does it?” she said, her hand hovering over the stitches.

“It's fine. Look I better go with old bog brush hair. We'll catch up later.”