Decoy (12 page)

Jack's father checked his rear-view mirror. He was certain there was someone on his tail, had been since he left the Cambridge airfield. Not the black Astra, but a blue Ford, staying back then creeping closer. Only one plane had left the airstrip that night and he had taken down the registration number from the tail. He wanted to go home, research as quickly as he could where it was headed, check the flight plan. But with the Ford following close behind he decided against it. No point leading them, whoever they were, to his front door.

Instead he made his way to central London, driving hard down the motorway. There was no traffic, no police about either. He put his foot down; still the lights of the car remained close. A busy Internet cafe open 24 hours on the Edgware road would do. He pulled up and parked on a side street, walking towards it then doubling back on himself, heading into the reception of a seedy looking hotel with bright lights above the doorway. He was annoyed at himself for not bringing a change of clothes. The easiest way to throw someone off your tail. He had been out of the game too long.

The hotel had another exit, via its late night piano bar. He walked cautiously through it. A depressing sight as ever you could see at two in morning. Middle-aged businessmen buying cheap Champagne for whichever call girl the Escort agencies had sent them. The women pulling their faces into unconvincing smiles, the men flushed and leery, safe in the knowledge they wouldn't need to impress this one in bed.

On the street again. Outside a Subway, one of the new sandwich shops that had appeared all over the city like a rash. He stepped inside and ordered something called a 12 Inch Sub. Bacon, egg, lettuce, chillies, chicken, tomatoes and whatever the hell else they put in there. Less of a sandwich, more like what you'd get if you set off a bomb in a supermarket then wiped the floor with a piece of soggy bread. The bacon wasn't even freshly fried, he thought with disgust as he chewed it.

Another glace up and down the street. People seated in some of the cafes, sipping espressos, despite the late hour. Minicab drivers stopped for a quick break. A shot of caffeine to keep their eyes on the road. And there was a steady stream of traffic. He looked about for a blue Ford. Couldn't see one, but they might have switched cars by now.

He threw the sandwich away. Crossed the road, into the Internet cafe. Past the Chinese students playing online war games. One of the booths near the back had a clear view of the room. The best position. He keyed in the code he'd been given at the desk and waited for the computer to boot up. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to find the destination the flight was headed to but he could at least find out who owned the plane. He tapped away at the keyboard, plane registration numbers, relevant databases, UK and US.

The records were posted on the Civil Aviation Authority's site. A Lear, owned by an organisation calling themselves Aviation Corps Ltd. A US-based private charter company. He hadn't heard of them, tried a random search on Google, which pulled up a couple of archived articles from the Financial Times. They were owned by another company, Defence Analytics. More searching. He scrolled down the page, another article, business pages of the
New York Times
. Defence Analytics were an offshoot of Centurion.

Now he was getting somewhere. He knew the name well enough. Everybody with military experience had heard of them. As far as he remembered, two of his former SAS colleagues had carried out work for them. They were less than impressed by the half-trained trigger-happy goons they'd been asked to lead and discipline. Rumour had it Centurion weren't too thorough in checking the background of the ground troops they employed. Soldiers busted out of the army for insubordination, men with criminal records for firearms offences, substance misuse. The list went on.

Archie took out his mobile and dialled the number for Marshall Airfield.

“Hello, could I speak to the shift manager please,” he said, his accent changed, refined, his voice low and close to the phone.

“Certainly Sir, can I ask who's calling?”

“It's Centurion,” he announced confidently, not deigning to give his name. The receptionist pressed some buttons, the sound of ringing down the line. A male voice answered.

“Richard Short Duty Manager speaking. How can I help?”

“Oh hello, there's been a delay with the delivery we needed to get to Flight L421AC. Can you let them know we'll be there in the next hour?”

He heard fingers tapping frantically on a keyboard. “Afraid not Sir. They took off at 10pm. Next stop Burundi, Bujumbura airport.” Archie was surprised. Central Africa, a country bordered by Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. He wondered why on earth his son was being taken there, or if that was just a cover and they were headed to a private airstrip. He had some experience of the region. Couldn't imagine there being a private airstrip nearby where a Lear jet could land.

“Right. Oh dear. Well thanks for letting me know. Looks like it'll have to be DHL.”

Archie flipped the phone shut, his fingers already searching for flights to the Burundi. Brussels Air, direct to Bujumbura from Heathrow. He could drive straight to the airport. Leave the car there and buy whatever clothes he needed. Any extra equipment could be purchased when he arrived in Africa. Passport. He checked himself. Had to go home and get the passport first.

The MI6 field officer leant back in his chair; the interest he showed in the online game in the corner of his screen superficial. He was keeping an eye on Archie Hartman, but it was hard to see over the booths. No way of getting a look at his screen without drawing attention to himself. Never mind, he thought, tapping into the Internet cafe's local network, he could easily access the web browser for that machine, see what the man had been looking at. He scanned the web addresses, flight numbers, newspaper articles, flights to Burundi. No time to waste, he called Sir Clive.

“Field Officer Edwards calling with an update.” He said quickly.

“Go ahead.” Sir Clive's voice terse, authoritative. “Target researching destination of flight. Just bought a ticket to Burundi.”

Sir Clive was silent, chewing over the information. “He's desperate, playing the odds, a guessing game,” he replied. “No way he could know what's going on, where Jack is. He probably just worked it out from the registration of the plane. I take it he's flying into Bujumbura?”

“He is.” Sir Clive ran a hand through his hair. Technically Bujumbura was the closest airport to Clement's camp, but it was still some distance away, across the mighty lake Tanganyika, through the jungle. Was it just a lucky guess? Even if the man knew where he was going, and frankly Sir Clive doubted he had any real idea, he was still going on instinct, wanting to be as close to the danger his son might face as possible. And it would take over a week to get to the encampment by road. A dangerous journey through parts of the eastern Congo under the control of different warlords.

He checked the file Mary had managed to compile on Archie Hartman again. He was in his late fifties but the picture in the dossier was taken some time ago. It showed a powerfully built man in his mid thirties. He was standing in front of row of palm trees, grinning, arms carelessly draped over two bedraggled civilians who were a head shorter, white men with unshaven faces and tattered clothes. On the back of the photo the date and location were hand written in biro, a careful script. Nigeria, 1981, release of two hostages.

Sir Clive remembered hearing about the op. Two oil company workers taken and held for ransom. The Thatcher government had stormed in, ordered the SAS to retrieve them, protect British business interests and
bring the boys
back. The “boys” in this case were middle-aged men who looked like they could still lose a few pounds, even after they'd been held hostage for a month. He wondered what the body count had been on the mission. And just how professional the people who took the two white men had been. Money hungry mercenaries or villagers angry with a foreign company leaking oil and lighting gas flares on their hunting grounds?

He sighed. It didn't matter. Orders were orders and no soldiers, not even those in the SAS, were paid to think. Maybe that's how it should be. It was thinking that was getting Archie Hartman into all sorts of trouble, threatening the operation Sir Clive had so carefully organised. Should he let the deluded old fool pack his bags and head to the Congo, allow him to bumble about in search of his son? Or should he charge the field operative to carry out a Code 3? Despatch the target. Sir Clive flicked through the man's file one more time. Decorated for bravery. Described as fearless and uncompromising by his senior officers, had fought in some of the most bloody conflicts of recent years. Too bad. This was no time for sentimentality. Not when the risks were this high. The man might prove more effective than he feared, might kick up a fuss, put the attack on Clement at risk, contact the press. He picked up the phone and called the field operative.

“Code 3. And be careful. He might be an old dog but he used to have a pretty nasty bite. Plenty of combat experience. You'll need a team. Minimum of three. Oh and Edwards, try to make it as quick and painless as possible.” Old soldiers deserve some dignity in death, he thought grimly as he closed the file.

He was about to send the papers back to archive when his eye caught the initials scrawled in pencil on the back page, ‘
T.G.R, legend!
'. He mulled that over for a moment. It was common practice for Special Forces troops to take on nicknames, but he had never seen that one. It bothered him. He picked up his phone and called a desk officer at the M.O.D, an old timer.

“Evening Roberts, I've got a file here with T.G.R written on the back, the officer's name was Hartman, Special Forces. Don't suppose you know what it stands for?” There was brief pause, he expected Roberts to go away and do some research and get back to him in a couple of hours. He didn't, replied straight away.

“The Reaper? The Grim Reaper? You've got his file?” Sir Clive didn't respond. The nickname didn't exactly fill him with optimism.

“T.G.R was a legend,” the desk officer continued enthusiastically, “went a little off the rails after that thing with his son, and was reprimanded a couple of times for excessive use of force, but if there was one man guaranteed to come out of tricky situation and leave a pile of bodies in his wake it was the Reaper. Is he back in action?”

“Not exactly, no,” Sir Clive replied before putting down the phone. A flicker of doubt crossing his mind, an unusual and unwelcome sensation.

Early morning mist hung close over the deer park. The weak February sun was unable to part the swirling clouds as they rolled across the valley, hiding the stately home from view. The estate belonged to the director of a large private bank, but he hardly ever used the place, preferring to work from his office in the Bahamas. He allowed high ranking officials from the British Government to make use of it when he wasn't there, as a training base, a conference centre, a bolt-hole when things got a little tough in the Cabinet. Even left a skeleton staff in place to make sure they didn't go hungry. Very considerate of him. But if you wanted a peerage you had to go the extra mile.

Today it was not government officials in sleek black Jaguars that sped up the mile long driveway, it was Harvey Newman and his coterie of advisors, strategists and planners. And they were not in Jaguars, they were in a convoy of Cadillac SRXs. Eight gas-hungry luxury jeeps that hogged the width of the drive and honked their horns at the deer that appeared through the mist.

“Where the hell are we?” Harvey asked without slowing down, the frightened animal skipping nimbly out of his path. Other deer in the nearby field turned their startled eyes on the cars. “Looks like we're on fucking safari.”

The tarmac gave way to gravel that crunched under the tyres. As they rounded the final graceful curve of the driveway, even Harvey Newman couldn't help but be impressed. Through the mist an Elizabethan sandstone house reared its stately head, imposing and elegant with tall mullioned glass windows glinting in the patchy light.

“Nice,” was all Harvey said. He was already on the phone, punching in Sir Clive's number.

“We've arrived Sir Clive, mission control. About to set up camp. When do you think you'll be here?”

Sir Clive was sitting in his office. He rubbed his eyes. Seven am. He hadn't been to bed yet. Still no news from the field team he'd charged with taking out Jack's father. He'd spent the rest of the night examining satellite feeds of the eastern Congo, pulling all the intelligence reports he could find on Clement Nbotou, preparing for the putsch. Monsieur Blanc's flight would have landed by now. Nbotou would have the ten devices within the next hour or so. He'd convene an emergency meeting with the relevant ministers as soon as he could.

“I'll be there by midday,” he replied. “I trust you had a good flight?”

“Fantastic, thank you. Nothing like flying in your own 747.” Harvey put the phone down and climbed out of the car, distracted by a silhouette that appeared out of the mist. A ghostly figure dressed in black.

“Good morning Sir, tea and a selection of pastries are available in the drawing room.” Harvey raised his eyebrows, not quite believing the house came with a real live butler.

“Thank you,” he said, resisting the temptation to call the man Jeeves. “You got any coffee?”

“I am sure we can rustle something up, Sir. When you're ready please follow me into the entrance hall. You'll be occupying the east wing. I trust you'll find the accommodation more than capacious.”

The man turned and walked back towards the house. Harvey grinned at Bob, “
More than capacious.
We gotta get one of those for the L.A offices. What a prize.” Bob raised his eyebrows, “I bet he types more quickly than your secretary,” he said under his breath.