Decoy (7 page)

Centurion International, Los Angeles

Harvey Newman drove his Lexus SUV out of Centurion's head office on Wiltshire Boulevard. From the air-conditioned building to the air-conditioned car with its soft leather seats, surround-sound stereo. Such pampering. He'd given up soldiering 20 years ago but he still couldn't get used to the luxury of his civilian life. The complacent ease with which rich West Coast folk glided through their cosy existence.

He knew he was one of them, if not in spirit, then at least in terms of the money in his bank account. Enough money to get invited to the Polo club, to all the right cocktail parties and tennis tournaments. As if he gave a damn. In a town that made its millions from the entertainment industry, he'd never felt at home. Centurion was his baby. His business. He'd built it up from scratch, from a rag-tag group of mercenaries paid to protect oil interests in West Africa to a billion dollar defence contractor advising the Bush administration on security in Iraq. More money than he'd ever dreamed possible. Modern warfare was an expensive and risky business and the last three presidents had shown themselves to be more than happy to farm it out to private companies like Centurion.

No, the L.A lifestyle didn't suit him. Give him the unforgiving desert sun any day, the ice-cold nights that followed, or the steaming heat of the jungle, the need to live on your wits. That was where he felt alive. Not here, surrounded by gym-buffed men who wouldn't know how to throw a punch if their pay check depended on it.

He'd chosen Beverley Hills as the location for his head office at the request of his third wife. She was thirty years younger than him, had been in the same school year as his daughter. She was also a professional blonde, a fitness instructor with one of those toned L.A bodies he loved to bounce about in the sack. At least he'd loved it at the start. Now they'd been together a few years the blowjobs had all but dried up and she was getting more and more reluctant to submit to his sexual power games. He was beginning to wonder whether to move on to wife number four. No hurry though, the cute little Mexican housekeeper, Juanita, was quite content to flick up the back of her skirt, let him satisfy his more unconventional urges. As long as he kept up the steady flow of expensive gifts.

He pulled onto the freeway and drove hard, along the broad boulevard, then took the turning for the coast road. He needed to let off steam. Get away from the irritations of the office. The inability of his staff to do even the simplest task grated. He checked himself. That wasn't fair. His staff were good, loyal, reliable. It had been a mistake to employ Monsieur Blanc, that was all. His deputy director had suggested it and the man had been highly recommended. Not for the first time in his professional life, Harvey was reminded you could only rely on your own judgement. Don't trust another person's opinion. He couldn't work out if Monsieur Blanc's delaying tactics were a ploy to squeeze more money out of him or if the guy was just incompetent. Neither did a great deal to endear the man.

He parked the SUV beside a deserted stretch of highway and climbed out, looking over the ocean. The sea was a deep azure blue, white horses riding high on the waves, a fine spray coming off. No way of getting to the water, you'd have to jump out over the rocks and let yourself fall twenty feet. Looked like there was quite a current judging by the swell. A difficult climb back up to the coast road.

That decided it. Harvey pulled off his clothes and threw them in the back of the car, stood for a moment in his shorts, enjoying the warm sun on his sixty-year-old body. He walked calmly to the edge and jumped outwards. A shallow dive, in case of rocks below the surface, then a one-hour swim straight out into the ocean. Another hour to come back, depending on the current. This was his kind of work out. An unknown test for the body, a check he still had the strength and stamina he'd enjoyed in his youth. The water felt good, he could work the tension loose from his muscles, enjoy the sense of freedom he'd known as young man, swimming for California State.

And it helped him to think. The solitude focused his mind. He sensed Monsieur Blanc needed some kind of ultimatum but Harvey didn't like to make threats. He was a man of action. No point in threatening someone, better just to get on with it. Leave the consequences as a clear warning to others.

The climb back up the rocks hurt. More than once his limbs, aching from the sustained strain of swimming against the current, threatened to relinquish their grip on the narrow ledges and cracks. He didn't let them, willed them to pull him up the steep rock face. Exhausted but satisfied, he rolled over the top and stretched out in the sun beside his car. Two more days, that was all he was going to give Monsieur Blanc. He'd fly the company jet to London and if the man didn't have the ten devices he'd be finished.

Harvey breathed deeply, got reluctantly into the mollycoddling car. Maybe he should just buy a second-hand army jeep. The physical effort had left him drained, but not so much he wasn't going to try his luck with Juanita at the pool house when he got home.

A thousand miles away, under the dreary grey sky of a South London suburb, Jack unlatched the rotten garden gate and headed up the path to the front door. The house was looking worse than when he'd left two years ago. More paint peeling off the window ledges, a couple more tiles loose on the mossy roof. Other houses in the street seemed smarter, newly renovated into flats for young families. His dad's dilapidated 1930s semi looked plain sorry for itself.

He leant on the buzzer, casting a quick glance round the garden, overgrown and untidy. He prayed his father was having a good day. If it was a good day there was a chance he'd have got out of bed, might even have showered and brushed his teeth. A bad day and he wouldn't even make it to the door. Probably just be lying passed out in the hallway, surrounded by cans of cheap lager.

He'd told Amanda he'd meet her back in Cambridge. He wasn't quite ready to introduce her to his father, wasn't quite sure he'd ever be ready for that but especially not at this early stage. And he wasn't exactly proud of the house his father had moved them to in his mid-teens either, the state it had fallen into.

Still no answer. He refused to remove his finger from the doorbell, knowing full well how much the sound of it irritated his father. Eventually a thumping down the stairs, a shadowy form through the glass. Door open, face unshaven, hair skew-whiff, but other than that perfectly presentable. Well, as presentable as anyone wearing a dressing gown over Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt could look.

“Jack.” He said, scratching his head as if trying to remember something. “Shouldn't you be at Oxford?”

Jack sighed, “Cambridge dad. I'm studying at Cambridge. Thought I'd pay you a visit.” He pushed past him into the house.

“How you doing these days?” He asked, casting a critical eye about the place. The rooms could do with an airing, but other than that it wasn't too untidy. The furniture his mother had chosen before she left was still wrapped in plastic packaging in the living room, the hallway his dad had started to paint a lurid orange in one of his drunken stupors still half painted in lurid orange.

“I see you haven't finished redecorating,” Jack said. His dad closed the front door. “No son, been busy with a new job, would you believe it,” Jack wouldn't believe it, but he didn't bother saying so.

“Can I get you a drink?” He opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. Jack checked his watch. nine am. He shook his head.

“Bit early for me dad, thanks. I'll put a brew on.”

“Please yourself,” his father said, looking about in a draw for a bottle opener. He couldn't find one and cracked the top off with his teeth instead. Two swallows and the bottle was emptied. He belched. “I'll have a cuppa too lad if you don't mind. Don't suppose you bought any milk?” Jack shook his head.

“There should be some of the powdered stuff in the cupboard.” Jack pulled a jar of Carnation milk from the cupboard, the label stained and yellow with age. He heaped two teaspoons of the creamy white powder into the tea. One or two flecks of white swirled on the surface, unwilling to dissolve.

“What's this new job then dad?” He asked, passing him the mug. His dad looked at him cautiously, his bloodshot eyes focussing, taking in his appearance for the first time. Jack was still wearing the ill-fitting suit MI6 had loaned him and full-on Robinson Crusoe beard. Looked pretty pale too. He wanted to ask if anything was the matter, but worried he might sound like a hypocrite. After all, he hadn't asked how the boy was at any point during the last two years.

“Come upstairs, I'll show you.” He said, “Mind the ash tray on your way up.” Jack stepped over a plate piled with fag ash on the third step and followed his father into the spare room.

“This is mission control.” His dad announced proudly. A desk was set up by the window, two more on either side. Four screens on the main desk and two computer towers beneath it. Every available surface was covered in a jumble of notebooks and pens, textbooks and ashtrays. Empty bottles of beer lay carelessly discarded and copies of the Financial Times were strewn over the floor. Jack looked at one of the screens. It showed the FTSE 100, share prices on a live feed. Another screen showed oil futures, Bloomberg updates in one corner, Reuters in another.

Jack didn't know what to say, he suspected his father had been the victim of some elaborate con, a salesman who had persuaded him to invest thousands in a home office, earn a fortune playing the markets from the comfort of your own home.

“I've found it son.” He announced proudly.

“Found what?” Jack asked. He'd come here hoping to get some advice, from what he'd seen so far it looked like his father was in far greater need of help than he was.

“Money. In those screens, in those little numbers running up and down. I've found it. Money just waiting to be taken.” Jack looked at the screens, then back at his father. His eyes had taken on an unnatural brightness, a zealous convert to a new religion. Jack shook his head. Why had he thought coming here would be a good idea?

“You don't believe me do you? Don't blame you. See those flight cases up there in the cupboard? They're full of cash, stuffed to the brim with it.”

“Of course they are dad.” Jack replied, not bothering to get up.

“I've been playing the markets,” he announced sagely, pulling another bottle from his dressing gown pocket and putting it to his lips. “Seems I have a bit of a knack for it. You sit here, watch what's happening. Leverage your position, sell short, do a little spread betting.”

Jack nodded his head grimly. His father had gotten involved in countless get-rich quick schemes since he retired from the army in his early forties, dog breeding, snail farming, the pub he'd bought a share of then proceeded to drink into the ground. Didn't take long for him to burn through the nest egg his more prudent mother had ensured they set aside. At least this one seemed pretty harmless. As long as he was only risking his own money.

“And you've wisely decided to stash your cash in those flight cases up there?” Jack asked sarcastically. His father shook his head.

“No no no no.” He replied quickly, as if Jack had suggested something perfectly ludicrous. “That's just a little taster. I called up the bank manager and asked him to bring round something from the account. I,” he looked briefly embarrassed, “I just wanted to check it was real, make sure I wasn't fooling myself. You know how fuzzy I can get after a couple of beers. Anyway, he was more than happy to, turned up in person in a security van, would you believe it.” His dad laughed.

“Are you sure he wasn't riding a pink elephant?” Jack asked, his face deadpan. His father pretended not to hear him and downed the rest of his beer.

“You want to take some? Help towards those expensive Oxford fees?”

“Cambridge dad, it's Cambridge. And no, I'm fine.” He said, not wanting to see his father's face when he opened the suitcases to reveal a couple of moth eaten army uniforms, a few keepsakes of his mother. His dad nodded, only half listening. “Like your independence eh? Good, good.” He put the empty beer bottle down and leant towards him, his face serious. “Now Jack, tell me why you're really here. You don't call for two years and then you turn up out the blue. You in some kind of trouble?”

Jack swallowed the last gulp of tea. He hadn't really thought about how to put this.

“I'm not in trouble. Not exactly, I mean it's something I can walk away from.” He was aware of his dad's eyes burrowing into him; the haziness of his gaze had been replaced with a steely concentration. An expression Jack did not recognise.

“The government wants me to do something for them. It'll sound ridiculous if I try and explain it, but basically it's an exchange, a small computer programme they want me to hand over.”

“Who to?” His dad said quickly.

“Um, don't know. That's what they want to find out.”

“Don't do it.” His dad replied flatly.

He was surprised by the forcefulness of his father's reaction. The intensity of the expression on his face. More than that, he was surprised at how easily the bumbling, alcohol-soaked persona had fallen away.

Jack frowned, “that's it?” he said. “I haven't even explained what this is all about . . . ” His dad held up his hand, placed a finger over his lips.

“You don't have to. You've told me enough. The people who've asked you to do this are sending you in blind, either because they don't want you to know who you're dealing with, or because they don't actually know. You asked for my advice so I'm telling you. Don't work on those terms. One thing you learn pretty quick in the army, never work with lying bastards or idiots. Both are liable to get you killed.”

Jack bit his lip and looked away. Were things really that simple? His dad had made a career out of giving up and walking away, why should he expect anything different in the advice he offered?

“Look,” his dad said. “You're not convinced. I'm not going to try and persuade you and I'm not going to ask you why you're doing this, or how you got into it. But I will say this, if you're going to go through with it, keep your eyes and ears wide open. Whatever is said, assume the opposite could also apply, whatever they ask you to do, make sure you have your own exit strategy. Where is this going to happen, UK or overseas?”

“UK. Tomorrow evening.”

“Where?”

“Cambridge, not sure yet.”

“Want me there?” Jack raised his eyebrows, thrown off balance. “No, don't think so. Should be fine.” He said at last. His dad looked unconvinced.

“What kind of kit are they giving you?”

“I don't know, nothing. There'll be other people there.” He said weakly. His dad shook his head.

“This stinks Jack. You know more about it than I do but to me it stinks.” He scratched at his tangle of grey hair, “let me just say this, whatever you've got yourself caught up in, you need to decide where your priorities lie. Don't step up to a challenge for the sake of it, to see if you can dodge bullets, don't do it unless you know exactly what you're letting yourself in for.”

Jack nodded. For a man on his third beer of the morning who looked like he'd selected his clothes by running at his neighbour's washing line with his arms outstretched, his father made a certain amount of sense.

“Thanks, I'll think on it,” he said and got up slowly, nodding; his dad waved him away.

“Don't mention it,” he said, reaching for another swig of beer. “Oh, one more thing Jack, before you go.” Jack turned to face him, he had opened the cupboard and was ferreting about, pulling clothes from the shelves and letting them land in an untidy pile on the floor.

“Here it is, knew I'd put it somewhere safe,” he said at last, handing Jack a battered Omega diver's watch, the face scratched, the metal strap scuffed. Jack looked at it uncertainly.

“My birthday's in May dad, and there's really no need.”

“It's not for your birthday, it's for luck,” his father said, eyes gleaming with something stronger than booze, hands pulling at Jack's wrist, undoing the strap of his cheap Casio, yanking it off, adjusting the Omega and fastening it in place. Jack winced, surprised at the strength that flowed from his father's hands, unnerved by the intensity of his expression.

“Promise me you won't take it off,” he said. Jack could feel his wrist beginning to go numb, his father's grip tightening.

“Promise me.”

“Alright, alright.” Jack said at last. Archie released his grip, and smiled into the distance as Jack rubbed his arm, tried to get the blood flowing again.

“That chunk of metal has seen more action than most soldiers manage in an entire career,” he said proudly. “Think of it as a talisman. Like the ring they have to protect in that Harry Potter film.” Jack couldn't help but smile, no point in correcting him.

“Whatever dad.”

Archie watched through the window as Jack headed down the road, away from the house. He knew one thing, he wasn't going to leave the safety of his son to the spooks in MI6. He knew from bitter experience half of them couldn't even shoot straight. Had a bullet lodged in his shoulder that still gave him the occasional pain from an op against the IRA he'd worked on with them in the 80s.

He reached into the cupboard he'd taken the watch from, pulled out a small leather briefcase, opened it up, flicked up the screen and waited for the signal. It was an old piece of kit, a relic from the cold war. He'd swiped it from a warehouse as a souvenir before he was discharged, played around with it, changed the battery, made a few alterations. It worked ok but wouldn't have a range of more than a couple of hundred miles. No, he wasn't leaving Jack in the hands of MI6. He'd follow him, but at a discreet distance. He wasn't going to lose a second son.