Decoy (14 page)

Heathrow Airport, 10am

Archie made his way through customs, the tracking device consigned to a small holdall he handed over at check-in. He had nothing else with him other than a wallet, phone, his passport and tickets. He'd buy what he needed when he landed in Burundi. He had a couple of contacts he could chase up, both ex-military, based in the city. They were the sort of men you only found in Africa, people who could get hold of anything–information, weapons, whatever kit you needed. As long as the price was right.

He smiled politely at the customs officer as he waved him through and felt a twinge of pain in his jaw as he did so. He'd bitten the spook's hand so hard it had almost dislocated, through the muscle at the base of the thumb, into the tendon running to the trigger finger. The gun had dropped instantly, the MI6 Officer too shocked to even scream. Archie caught the automatic in his bound hands before it hit the floor, fired two shots into each of his captors' heads without so much as pausing for breath. All over in a matter of seconds.

He was relieved, relieved the years of drinking hadn't completely dulled his instincts, relieved his reaction speed was still as sharp as it needed to be.
Of course if I'd been younger they'd never have got me into the boot of the car in the first place
, he admitted to himself, and they were only a bunch of spooks, not real soldiers, but at least he'd made it to the airport in time.

He checked the departure boards then wandered into a bookshop, grabbed a handful of maps and travel guides on Burundi and the Democratic Republic of Congo. He intended to spend the flight cramming as much information into his head as he could–geography, languages, different ethnic groups and the customs in each region. It paid to be well-prepared. It paid to be well-informed. You never knew what piece of information might save your life. His only fear was that Jack would be beyond the range of the tracking device when he landed.

1 kilometre from Nbotou's camp, Democratic Republic of Congo

The sun climbed higher in the sky, shadows retreating as it moved overhead, as if scared by the intensity of the heat. The jeep had a puncture. Gustav's fear that the boy could barely drive the car had proved well-founded. He'd hit a sharp stone sticking up from the track not far from the runway, and the blowout had almost sent them careering into a ditch.

Now they were ranged alongside the car, Gustav yanking at the wheel nuts with a rusty spanner, going nowhere fast. No one spoke. The heat was too much. Eventually he got the wheel off. Managed to fit the spare. Gustav didn't ask permission to drive, he simply sat behind the wheel and started the engine. The soldiers didn't protest. It was unlikely he'd get lost driving down a narrow track through the heart of the jungle.

“Good work Gustav,” Monsieur Blanc said, patting him on the shoulder. The man had been his personal assistant for the last five years. He didn't have the quickest of minds but he was a workhorse, reliable and strong. Brave with it.

Jack had been dumped in the rear of the jeep. His side was aching but he still struggled against plastic tape holding his wrists and feet together. One of the boy soldiers had climbed in beside him, the one in the torn football shirt. He flicked carelessly at the safety catch on the AK-47, poked at the cords digging into Jack's ankles and wrists. Jack wondered how old the kid was, hard to tell from his height, he looked hungry, malnourished. Maybe ten or twelve.

“You like football?” He asked. The boy frowned, “football, tu aimes ça?” Jack repeated, pointing at his Manchester United shirt, wondering if they still spoke French in this area. The boy nodded shyly.

“Wanwoonee,” he announced with a nod of his head, performing a miniature kick with his fingers and miming a goal celebration.

“Wanwoonee?” Jack repeated, wondering what the boy was talking about. He thought for a moment. . . “Wayne Rooney?” He asked at last, laughing.

“Oui, oui, Wan Rooney, good player, very good,” the boy said, smiling, for one moment transformed from a child soldier back into a grinning child. One of the older boys shouted at him from the front of the car. Jack couldn't understand the words but he got the meaning, could tell the boy had been told to shut up.

The rusted gates to the colonial mansion took three boys to lift and pull open. Gustav drove through and parked in the courtyard, as close as he could to the house.
My God
, he muttered to himself as he looked around. The air was oppressive, the scent of death heavy. Two boys were busy skinning a monkey, the stringy red meat already attracting a cloud of flies. The creature's hands had been severed from the arms and put to one side, looked like a pair of children's gloves, but with tendons still trailing. Gustav spat in disgust.

“Welcome to the abode of Clement Nbotou.” Monsieur Blanc said quietly. He had been to this place before, and now, as then, he felt the same creeping sensation he was in one of the most unpleasant places on the planet.

“Stinks to hell man,” Gustav replied, his sleeve over his nose, the combination of open latrines, smoke, and body odour strangling his throat.

In the back of the jeep, Jack had managed to yank himself into an upright position. He too felt disgust, but that was not his primary emotion, he also felt sorrow. The children here were as captive as he was. Maybe even more so, since he was resolved to escape; they looked resigned to their fate, nothing to escape to.

“Monsieur Blanc, mon trèsCher!” Clement's deep voice bellowed from the entrance to the house. “I trust your journey was not too unpleasant.” He jogged down the steps to meet them, his black skin glistening with a layer of sweat, eyes bright, mouth smiling a crocodile smile.

Gustav instinctively took a step back. The man was a giant, taller than him with a massive frame; he dominated his surroundings, dominated the jungle. It was not just because of his physique, it was the contained energy, the sheer force of his personality.

He leant forward and embraced Monsieur Blanc warmly, then held out his arm and shook Gustav's hand. To his surprise the grip was soft, gentle even. A man like Clement did not need to bother asserting himself by crushing the hands of the people he greeted.

“And what is this you bring me trussed up like a chicken in the back of the jeep?” He gestured towards Jack, a puzzled smile on his face. Monsieur Blanc cleared his throat.

“Him, yes. A long story. Why don't we open a bottle of whiskey and I can explain all?” He replied smoothly, reaching behind him for a case of single malt and presenting it to Clement. Clement's eyes lit up.

“Laphraoig. My favourite! Very hard to find in the Congo you know,” he replied with a deep belly laugh, slapping Monsieur Blanc on the back. For the first time Jack realised the diminutive size of the man and his healthy waistline worked in his favour. Monsieur Blanc would never be perceived as a threat by the people he did business with, his physicality was too comic, too clown-like.

Clement led them up the steps and into the mansion. As he reached the door, he turned and looked back, the smile gone. A different expression in place. He pointed at the two boys struggling to skin the monkey, shouted at them, pointed at Jack, then disappeared inside. The boys dropped the meat and ran to their weapons, taking up position on either side of him. Schoolchildren told by the headmaster to monitor the playground. Schoolchildren with guns.

Jack was still struggling with the wires that bound his wrists and ankles. The two boys watched him with doleful eyes. One of them chewing a piece of bark.

“I'm Jack,” he announced, smiling. “Pleased to meet you.” The boys didn't respond. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. The younger of the two laughed. The other boy didn't, just watched him solemnly. It was a long shot, but he saw the children as his most likely means of escape. If he could just get one of them to untie his wrists. He looked up at the sun overhead. Never mind untying his wrists, he'd be grateful if they just moved him to the shade. The heat was unbearable, his throat dry as sandpaper. He hadn't had a drink since the plane and he wasn't sure how much longer he would last in the full glare of the sun.

It might have been an hour, maybe two, possibly three, before Monsieur Blanc emerged from the house. The blistering heat, the cramps in his legs and arms, the stabbing pain in Jack's side meant each minute felt like an eternity. He had tried counting in his head but he ended up getting angry, losing the numbers, the natural order of things.

“Well Jack, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that the meeting with Clement went well and he accepted our explanation as to why we brought you here with grace and humour.” He breathed a small sigh. “The bad news is Gustav and I are now going to cut out the device.”

Jack was too weary to respond. He tried looking up at the house but it was dissolving into hundreds of tiny white dots before his eyes. Gustav appeared at the top of stairs, unsteady on his feet. He belched loudly.

“Come Gustav, let's get the boy inside.” He leant in close to Jack and said, “for a Russian, he is not a great drinker.” The last thing Jack heard before he passed out.

Sir Clive Mortimer wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. One minute the deer was chewing the cud, the next it was vaporised in a blister of heat, a flash of light. Of course he'd viewed Harvey's promotional videos, but they hadn't convinced him, he was sure some kind of visual trickery was involved.

“Careful you don't start any fires with that thing,” Sir Clive said, as they trudged over to the charred corpse. The smell of burnt flesh stung their nostrils. Harvey couldn't help but grin.

“All Bob's work. The man's a genius. Got the prototype down in size and increased the intensity of the plasma flare. Means the target just lights up. And that's not even on the strongest setting.”

“Quite an achievement,” Sir Clive replied. Bob smiled modestly. “I have a very good team,” he replied.

“What's the range?”

“Up to half a kilometre. But you can get a wide angle on it. The lower settings will send out a divergent beam. Instead of incinerating someone, you'll just fry their pain receptors. Freeze them to the spot.” Bob replied.

“You want to get some of your troops to try it out, get a handle on it?” Harvey said, pleased he'd gotten Sir Clive's interest. Sir Clive rubbed his chin. “Have you run a range of environment tests? Heat, humidity, dust, extreme cold?”

“Of course. Stress tests were carried out over a year ago,” Bob said. “It's at production stage. All we need is a steady supply of coltan.”

“And the battery?”

“Five hundred pulses on max strength from a pack. And remember, you set it to divergent mode and one pulse will immobilise a crowd of 50 people at a hundred metres.”

Sir Clive nodded. “What do you think Ed, willing to give it a go? Ed Garner checked the weapon. Lightweight, no heavier than a small submachine gun, carbon fibre body. Simple to use too. He liked the feel of it.

“As long as the damn thing doesn't jam it's fine by me. Might fire off a few more rounds before we ship out. And I'm packing all the usual kit too. How much does one of these retail for?”

“For you Ed, $450,000,” Harvey replied, switching easily to salesman mode.

“No shit!” Ed replied, laughing. “That's a hell of a price to pay for a gun.”

“It's a hell of a gun. Switch to divergent mode. Point at the cattle in that field.” Ed looked a little uncertainly at the cows in the field. He had no desire to turn them into beef burgers before their time. “Switch to the lowest setting. All you'll do is give them a little fright.” Harvey said encouragingly. Ed pointed the gun at the cattle, it fizzed then cracked. A burst of light. The animals panicked, running at one another, turning circles, heads swaying, mouths foaming.

“You do that to a crowd of people and it'll have the same effect. It's an odd sensation, a burning pain under the skin. Liable to induce panic, but not fatal. Guaranteed to stop a group of soldiers in their tracks,” Bob explained confidently.

“Come on. I think we've curdled enough milk for one day,” Sir Clive said. “Ed, I want to go over the op with you once more. The details for the drop and the pick-up point. Make sure you're clear.”

“Fine,” Ed said, “We'll go through it with the team. What time are we shipping out?”

“You'll flying out from Brize Norton tonight, 8 pm. The Chinook will take you there. Should be parachuted over the Congo in the early hours of tomorrow morning. I don't want you spending more than a day on reconnaissance. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. Time is everything.”

Ed nodded grimly. Preparation was everything, Sir Clive's plans were hurried and he hoped he hadn't missed a trick. He wasn't quite so convinced Clement Nbotou's soldiers would be as ill-prepared and undertrained as Sir Clive suggested.

Archie Hartman walked quickly down the steps and onto the runway, the tarmac reflecting the last of the afternoon heat into his pasty face. It had been a quiet flight but he hadn't slept. Too busy reading. Too busy worrying. He picked up the holdall with the tracking device from the carousel and hoped it hadn't been knocked about too much.

A row of taxis waited hopefully outside the airport, each one with a smiling driver promising him the best price in town. Archie picked the nearest one; he wasn't too concerned about safety. If the driver was foolish enough to try anything he'd come off worse. A lot worse.

“Take me to the best hotel in the city, not some shit house run by your friend's cousin or your brother-in-law's uncle.” He announced with an easy-going grin and a wave of a $100 bill. “And I'll need you to stick around, you'll get another one of these tomorrow.”

That was the chauffeur sorted. $100 was more than he would earn in a month. “Oh, and I'd like to borrow your mobile,” he said. “Don't worry, local call.”

Later that evening, having finally persuaded the owner of the hotel to give him a room with a lock on the door and a mosquito net that wasn't full of large holes, Archie Hartman headed into town. He'd managed to make contact with Spike Van de Weye. One-time soldier, one-time mercenary, now a small-time arms dealer, bar owner and all-round fixer.

He handed the address to the taxi-driver who drove quickly through the downtown traffic, past the bustling cafes and hotels and on to the outskirts.

“You sure this is the right way?” Archie asked, as the streetlights dropped away and the surface of the road grew more and more uneven. More holes than road, he thought grimly, head bumping against the roof of the cab.

“Bar Terese you say?” The driver asked. Archie nodded. “This way. Very popular place.” Archie looked out the window, the houses close together, compacted, one-storey tall, flimsy constructions of wood and corrugated metal. Some had electricity, others small fires outside. Ahead the sound of music, bass-heavy rumba and shimmering Congolese guitars in the darkness. The cab pulled over.

“We are there sir. Just follow the music,” the driver said. He climbed out the cab, whistled a greeting to some friends by the bar. Archie followed. It looked more like a concrete bunker with the front wall sliced off than a bar. Electric lanterns were strung up between faded plastic tables and chairs and a pair of heavy-looking speakers pounded out the music. In the background, not quite drowned out by the thumping bass, was the disgruntled chug of the diesel generator that powered the place.

Spike was sitting at the bar. He had a ruddy complexion and sandy blond hair that rose in uncontrollable tufts from his pink scalp. Archie had first assumed he got the nickname from the hair and only discovered later it was because of his skill with a trench knife, the spiked blade he used to favour in close-quarter fighting. They'd worked together twice before, Spike providing ground level intel on two ops the SAS had run in Nigeria.

He was reliable but expensive, trustworthy as long as you paid on time. Similar age to Archie, but he'd grown fat over the years, his stomach hanging low over his belt, his neck rolling over the top of his short-sleeved safari shirt. He had his back to Archie, cigarette dangling from one hand, his other draped over a young black woman. He turned before Archie could call out his name, stepped forward and into the darkness.

“Archie you old bastard, that you?” He said, a broad grin spreading across his face. “You look pale as hell man, here for the weather?” A deep belly laugh rose from within him as he embraced Archie in a mighty bear hug. He might have put on a few pounds, but Archie could tell the muscle was still sound underneath the fat.

“I take it you're here for business, not pleasure? Hell of a long way to come for a drink,” Archie tried to pull his face into a smile. It wasn't very convincing.

“Business it is. You're looking well Spike.”

“You mean I'm looking fat hey? Don't worry. I know. Too much meat. Here man, come into my office,” he led Archie past the bar and through a door that looked stronger than it needed to be.

“Nice place,” Archie said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say and he had never been much good at small talk. Spike laughed, “it might be a shit hole but it's my shit hole. And it's good for business, people know where to find me and no one can be bothered to rob the place.” He flicked the light switch and shut the door behind Archie. The room was cool, air-conditioned.

“Take a seat. Been a long time Archie man, what can I do for you?” Two whiskey glasses appeared on the desk and Spike pulled a bottle out of one of the drawers.

Archie took a glass and drained it, promising himself he'd only have the one. It would have been impolite to refuse. Spike refilled it. Maybe just the two then.

“I need the stuff on this list,” Archie said, passing a note over the desk. “How long before you can get it?” Spike took a drag on his cigarette, downed his whiskey and cast his eyes over the items. It didn't present too much of a challenge, it was all standard kit, stuff he had in storage: webbing, side arms, morphine, a sat phone, hunting knives, jungle hammock, malaria tablets. Hiring a helicopter might take a couple of days to arrange but it was all do-able.

“You off on a little camping trip, maybe doing some hunting?” He asked with a smile.

“Something like that.” Archie replied.

“Look, you get me the money I can drop this round for you early tomorrow.” Spike said.

“Great. Pass me your phone and account details and let me know how much, I'll transfer it straight away.”

Spike was taken aback. Normally he expected his clients to bargain; his prices were high, too high for anyone to pay unquestioningly and Archie hadn't even asked how much it would come to. If he didn't know the man better he would have suspected a set up. He looked at him carefully, took in the slight tremble in his hand, the intense look in his eye.

“You in trouble man?” He asked at length. Archie frowned, scratched his head. He had no reason to lie to the man.

“Not me. My boy. My boy's out there. I need to bring him back.”

Spike nodded. He had known Archie long enough to remember what had happened after Paul's death. The man was derailed. You couldn't go for a drink with him without it ending in disaster, a dozen bars half destroyed, the same number of broken noses.

“Come with me. I'll get you tooled up. Then we'll see what we can do about that chopper.” He said, rising to his feet. “And don't worry about payment, we can sort it out later.”