Decoy (13 page)

Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, 9.00am

The same light that fell on the windows of Batley Hall filtered through the tall grimy windows of the old brick works in Bow, east London. It formed a chequered pattern on the dusty floor. The place had been earmarked for re-development. Luxury flats to rise out of the ashes of the industrial past.

Archie Hartman wasn't aware of any of that. He was only aware of the greyish black forms he could see through the hood pulled tightly around his neck, the hand that jerked his arm roughly, pulling him to one side of the room. A foot pressed into the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.

The three men had been good. Better than good. Expert. He hadn't even seen them coming. The first he'd know about it was a crack on the back of his head. Knocked him to the floor. He'd almost blacked out. Almost, but not quite. Twenty years ago he might have had a chance. Could have spun out the way. Got to his feet. Got away. The second hit meant he wasn't going anywhere. He'd come to in the claustrophobic heat of a car boot. Head thumping hammer on pipe and trussed up so tight he could barely move. He could smell exhaust fumes, petrol. They weren't moving fast and they had to stop every minute or so. Must be in London, making their way through traffic, waiting at lights.

They'd pulled over after an hour, opened the boot and yanked him out. None of them spoke. Didn't ask his name, didn't threaten him. Spooks through and through, he thought. So different from regular army. As if they were afraid their power might diminish if they struck up a conversation, appeared more human.

Archie had never been like that. He'd always looked a man in the eye. Offered him a final cigarette. His power was that he didn't give a damn. Not now, not ever. No fear and no regret. Jack was the same, he knew that much, recognised it in him when he was growing up.

He'd kicked against the cramped confines of the car boot as hard as he could. Kicked until he was all used up, till his rage was spent, transferred in dents and distortions to the metal that held him in. His captors had simply pulled over into a quiet side street and waited till he wore himself out. The fate he had dished out to so many others had finally caught up with him. His demons in human form, casually dressed and standing behind him. Come to call him in. To account for the past. They pulled off his hood. He glanced behind him. They weren't wearing masks. A sign they were confident he wouldn't be around to recognise them. And they seemed so young. Just a group of friends off to a football match or pub.

He was reminded of Jack. The world he had got involved in. If he had a regret, it was that he hadn't forced the boy to walk away when he had the chance. But there was nothing he could have done. Jack was too strong-willed, too eager to test himself. Always had been. Pushing himself twice as hard as everyone one else at football, academic work, the partying that had threatened to derail him as a teenager. As if he wanted to achieve enough for two. Make up for his brother not being there.

He remembered one of his colleagues at the army base in Italy telling him about the lad's talent for fighting, a real cold-blooded ruthless streak mixed with perfect balance, razor sharp reflexes and tremendous strength. Archie had felt a peculiar mixture of pride and sorrow, the boy had got that from him, but he also had brains. A terrific intelligence inherited from his mother that Archie didn't want him wasting.

As he knelt on the ground he felt the uncertainty, the fear for the boy that had plagued him, beginning to subside. Something else in its place. A reassurance, the knowledge he was well-equipped to deal with whatever life, or indeed the Security Services, decided to throw at him, far better than he himself would have been. He knew that somehow he'd find a way out, find his way home. He turned to face his executioners, an expression on his face they couldn't understand. A confidence that didn't need words or threats to make it real. An unsettling lack of fear. The officers unconsciously took a step back.

“Listen, I'm not going to try and dissuade you from what you're about to do. Orders are orders and all that.” Archie said, “But you should be aware of something. If you pull that trigger a boy,” he checked himself, “a man, will come for you. Not for some time. A year, maybe more. But he'll come for you and he'll be so quick you won't even see him, he'll take you while you're sleeping, while you're on your way to work, off to meet your girlfriend for dinner.” He paused and looked each of them in the eye. “Pull that trigger and all three of you are dead men walking.”

There was no dramatic overtone to the man's voice, no sense that he trying to scare them. He was matter of fact, calm and composed. So utterly confident in the face of death, that the three MI6 operatives couldn't help but glance quickly at each other. Orders were orders and you followed them unquestioningly, but that didn't mean there weren't external consequences.

The officer holding the gun stepped forward and pressed the barrel against Archie's forehead. “Enough,” he said, finger on the trigger, ready to dispatch the target. And then he made a mistake. He hesitated.

Final checks completed. Please prepare for landing
. The pilot's voice piped into the cabin. Monsieur Blanc adjusted his watch. Two hours ahead. It was a relatively short runway and the pilot would have to switch on reverse thrust almost as soon as he touched down.

Jack pushed himself back against the luggage rack as well he could. Felt like they'd been in the air for about 5 hours, but he had no clue which direction they had flown in.

A jolt as the plane hit the runway, a roar from the engines as reverse thrust kicked in. He'd never felt a deceleration like it. As if the plane had flown into a steel net that was stretched to the breaking point. The lights came on in the cabin, the plane had slowed, was taxiing forwards gingerly. Jack wondered where on God's earth they'd landed.

Monsieur Blanc and his assistant were speaking to one another at the far end of the cabin, out of earshot. He wondered if they were deciding whether to cut the device out of him now or leave it for whomever they were meeting. One of the flight crew stepped toward him, somehow managing to avoid looking him in the eye. He busied himself with the door, attempting to pull the levers and push it outwards. It didn't budge.

“Oi, shit face. Where are we?” Jack said, hoping it might get the man's attention. He ignored him. “You with the door. Where have we landed? What's going on? You do know it's illegal to kidnap people yeah?”

The man managed to get the door open. Jack wondered if he was the pilot, and if so how he'd ended up running errands for someone like Monsieur Blanc. He had his back to him but Jack had seen him approach. He was pretty sure he could recognise him if he ever needed to.

“Well Jack, I'm afraid we have reached the end of the road for you,” Monsieur Blanc said, reaching forwards and cutting through the gaffer tape that bound him to the luggage rack, leaving the binding cord that held his wrists and ankles together. As soon as the last stretch of tape was cut he attempted to fling himself forwards, but his muscles, stiff and unmoved for the duration of the flight, protested with crippling camps. He fell forwards and landed at Monsieur Blanc's feet, much to the man's bemusement.

“Ten out of ten for effort,
mon brave
, ten out of ten. But I'm not sure where exactly you thought you were going.” He turned, “Gustav, give me a hand getting the boy down the stairs and into the jeep.”

Gustav hoisted Jack over his shoulder and headed through the door and down the steps, grunting with the effort. Banging Jack's head on the doorway. A wave of heat hit them. Humid and unpleasant. At the edge of the runway, steam rose from the jungle. He dumped Jack unceremoniously on the tarmac and looked around. Three teenagers waited next to a small wooden cabin, AK-47s hung loosely over their arms. One of them was wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops instead of combat fatigues. Gustav, who had trained with the Russian army, shook his head at the sorry state they were. Jack strained his neck to see where he was. The tarmac was unbearably hot and burnt his cheek.

“You want me to cut out the device here?” Gustav said, pointing at Jack, one hand ready to unsheathe his hunting knife. Monsieur Blanc watched as the three boys drew closer, weapons pointing casually in their direction.

“At this precise moment in time I don't want to do anything that will make those boys with guns nervous.”

Gustav nodded. He'd accompanied Monsieur Blanc on trips to Africa before, knew the kids were jumpy and likely to be high. The three boys stopped, the tallest one gesturing to the jeep. “In cah, get in cah.” He pointed his gun to make sure they got the message. Gustav bent down and picked Jack up. Slung him over his shoulder. Not an easy task given the size and weight of the man. And the fact that he kept trying to sink his teeth into the back of his neck.

Monsieur Blanc put his face close to Jack. “For what it's worth I am sorry about this. That man who lost his mind in your rooms in Cambridge, he was a liability. When we come to take out the device I will try and make sure it is as painless as possible.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “tell me, you were a student at Cambridge weren't you, would you recommend the University? I hope one day to complete the Theology studies I abandoned as a young man. Is it terribly expensive to secure a place there?”

Jack grunted as Gustav hoisted him into the rear of the jeep. Part of him wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but another part jumped at the chance to form some sort of connection with him, however sleight, anything to make him think twice about killing him.

“Interviews and exams. You can't buy a place. Just have to work very hard.” Monsieur Blanc nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Jack. There's always the American Ivy League, Yale and so on, but one has the distinct impression that if they accept someone like George Bush the school itself is not particularly discerning.”

The jeep bounced along the track, the boy driving it just about able to reach the pedals and see over the dashboard. His gun lay across the foot well. Gustav was seated next to him. He badly wanted to take control of the wheel, almost as much as he wanted to check the weapon's safety catch was on.

Some parts of the forest had been cleared, pale brown mud showing underneath. Children and adults were digging at the dirt with their hands, washing it in small bowls. Jack also saw makeshift mines sunk into the ground, metal pipes awash with watery mud as well-practised fingers sifted through it.

“What are they doing?” He asked. Monsieur Blanc dabbed at the sweat on his forehead.

“Mining. For coltan. I'm afraid they won't get a very good price for it. Not from the man we are going to see.”

“So we must be in . . . ” Jack thought for a moment. Was it the eastern Congo that had significant deposits of the metal? He remembered reading an article in
The Economist
bemoaning the high price of the ore and its knock-on effect on the technology industries.

“Democratic Republic of Congo?” He said at last. Monsieur Blanc nodded.

“But in this place the name of the country means nothing. Regions are controlled by men with guns. The man with the most guns decides what the place should be called.” Jack nodded thoughtfully.

“And you're going to hand over ten decoy devices to one of these men so the British army can . . . ”

He didn't finish the sentence. A sudden slap in his face that drew blood from his lip stopped him.

“Not here Jack. Your insinuations are not welcome at this point in time.” Jack remained silent, allowing himself a discreet, satisfied smile. He had riled the man. Despite claiming he didn't believe him, Monsieur Blanc was evidently not quite as relaxed as he seemed, and with good reason. Monsieur Blanc knew from past experience that a favourite trick of Clement's was to make sure at least one of the boys sent to greet his visitors could speak their language. Someone to listen in, report back on the unguarded conversation that took place during the journey. If Jack was right and the devices really were a decoy, some kind of elaborate confidence trick, Clement was likely to sniff it out. He had instinct for that sort of thing, one the reasons he had remained in control of his little fiefdom for so long. If that happened, Monsieur Blanc looked thoughtfully into the jungle, if that happened it would be the first, and quite possibly the last time in his working life that his fate would be completely outside of his control. He did not enjoy the sensation.

Batley Hall, Midday

Harvey Newman sat down at the head of the formal dining table feeling most at home. The hunting trophies arranged over the walls, stuffed stag heads, antlers, the crossed swords over the enormous fireplace, muskets and a coat of arms, it satisfied the all-conquering urge within him. Whoever had put them there, he could relate to. He was beginning to give some serious thought to buying a similar pad for himself. Maybe even shipping it over to L.A. to enjoy it in the sunshine.

Bob sat down at the table next to him, passing him a stack of papers.

“How's your room, Bob?” Harvey asked, ignoring the paperwork.

“Old. Creaky. Four poster bed and tapestries all round. Like being in one of those ghost movies from the seventies.”

“Mine too, great isn't it? I feel like Henry the eighth.”

“Did Sir Clive tell you when he'd be here?” Bob asked, tasting one of the sandwiches laid out on the table. “What the hell is this?” He pulled a piece of cucumber from his mouth. “Who the hell would make a sandwich from cucumber? Don't they have salt beef in this country?” Harvey was laughing, finding it hard to control himself.

“Here, try these ones instead. Jeeves tells me they're made from a local cheese and some homemade
pickle
.”

“Pickle?” Bob repeated quizzically.

“He meant relish. Anyway, they're not bad.” He passed the plate to his colleague. “Sir Clive called me earlier. Said he's on his way. They're flying in a massive great Chinook. He's got the go-ahead from his buddies in the cabinet so he's put together a small team. Ten men. Assures me they're the best available.”

“Hmm,” Bob replied, noncommittally. “Let's hope they're better trained than the people who make these sandwiches.”

Sir Clive watched as London tilted below the helicopter, the Thames a curving silver ribbon that cut through the city. He had Ed Garner on board and a team hastily put together at the Chelsea barracks. The usual range of skills–explosive specialists, medics, linguists. Soldiers who brought more to the battlefield than brute strength and all of them had direct experience of the region. Ed would lead them.

The meeting at the Cabinet had gone well. The PM signed off the mission, agreed it was in the UK's security interests. Dr. Calder had provided him with a range of satellite feeds of Clement's camp, the nearby runway. The team would parachute in at night. Use thermal imaging to build up a picture of the routine at the camp. Get a rough idea of its layout. A jungle drop was always a tricky thing, if just one of them missed the designated landing zone they'd be hanging upside in a tree for the rest of the night. If seen, they would give the whole mission away.

Dr. Calder had identified a clearing two kilometres from the camp. Looked like the trees had been cut to mine for Coltan but the area now lay abandoned. As safe a place as any to send the men in.

They didn't have enough men to win a battle in the open, but that had never been the point of the SAS. The plan was to set off diversionary explosions at the runway. A sequence of bangs and flashes lasting over an hour, a hell of a lot of fireworks but nothing that would damage the landing strip. Nbotou would need to send a force to deal with it, he couldn't risk losing the runway, it was key to his financial and military success. M16 fragmentation mines placed around the perimeter would add to the confusion: each time they were stepped on a vicious spray of ball bearings would explode at waist height. They had a reach of nearly 200m, enough to maim not just the soldier who stepped on the device, but anyone else who happened to be nearby.

Using that as the distraction, they would attack the camp itself. This time the explosions would do some damage. A four-point charge to demolish the outer wall. Rocket propelled grenades into the main building. Key to their tactic was inducing panic. Sir Clive had a suspicion than many of the boy soldiers would simply disappear into the forest if they thought they faced a real, heavily-armed and fully-prepped enemy. It was all very well pointing a gun at Congolese villagers; it was another thing knowing where to point that weapon when the SAS were coming at you out of the dark. Sir Clive suspected there'd be a lot of bullets flying about, a lot of deaths from friendly fire. He wanted his troops fully armoured up, didn't want anyone dropped by a stray bullet.

They'd move in quickly. Clement had to be identified and disposed of. They'd rely on flash bangs, the explosives that delivered a blinding flash of light and deafened those in the vicinity. A weapon designed to disorientate, not kill. Make their way through the house. Ensure there was no escape route. Sir Clive had also advised the troops it would be no bad thing if one of their bullets happened to hit the fat Chinaman that had sold the devices to Clement. The SAS soldiers got the message, the Chinaman was selling UK defence secrets to the highest bidder, no reason why a man like that shouldn't expect to find himself on the receiving end of British bullet.

The helicopter banked over Batley Hall before beginning its descent onto the discretely constructed helipad. It was hidden from view from the house by the arboretum at the end of the formal gardens. Sir Clive suspected Harvey would try to persuade him to test out his new weapons in a live combat situation, secure some video footage he could use for marketing purposes. We'll see, he thought to himself. No harm in letting the troops have a play with the guns here, but a combat situation was not the place to find out whether or not they worked.

“Sir Clive, wonderful to see you,” Harvey shouted above the roar of the helicopter blades. He stepped toward him and shook him warmly by the hand. “I hear you got the go-ahead from the Cabinet. Good news, good news.”

Sir Clive nodded and turned to introduce Ed Garner, who was busy unloading kit from the chopper.

“Ed, come over here. Someone I'd like you to meet.” Ed slung the bag he was carrying to the ground and held out his hand.

“Ed Garner, glad to know you,” he said.

“Harvey Newman, we're working alongside you boys on this one.” Ed Garner nodded. Sir Clive had told him Harvey's security firm was providing intel on Nbotou. More smoke and mirrors, but Ed seemed to buy it. So much of America's intelligence gathering had been outsourced to private companies you never knew who you might be working with.

“Good flight?” Harvey asked.

“Fine, thank you.” Ed replied. He looked distracted, like he had things to be getting on with and wasn't keen on standing around making chitchat.

“Let's leave Ed and the boys to unpack their gear, Harvey.” Sir Clive said, a hand on Harvey's shoulder, turning and walking towards the house. “You know what it's like, they have to carry out their checks, ensure the parachutes are packed safely, that sort of thing.”

“Sure, sure. Pleased to meet you Ed, and good luck,” he replied cheerfully. Once they were out of earshot his face became serious.

“Now, Sir Clive, take me through the strategy for taking over Nbotou's camp. Everything needs to run like clockwork if we're to install our man to run his operation.”

Harvey listened carefully as Sir Clive summarised the plan; for once in his life he didn't have a single suggestion or comment to make. Sir Clive had everything covered; he appeared to be as good as his reputation, a rare thing in this line of business.