Decoy (2 page)

Jack headed towards the light, blinking, disbelieving. He didn't know what he'd find outside the door. He didn't care. The unreality of the situation was too much for him. He just wanted to get out. The floor of his ward was covered in pools of dark liquid, the bodies opened, cruelly exposed. His stomach reacted violently. He ran, his most primal instinct, no idea where he was going, along corridors and down stairs, almost tripping over the fallen scientist who'd tried to get away.

He made it to reception. Two more bodies. A woman slumped over her desk and a deliveryman in the wrong place at the wrong time. He blocked the doorway, the automatic glass doors opening and closing against his chest. Jack stepped over him, the unreality of it all a waking nightmare. He was outside now, standing in the cold, the winter wind tugging at his loose hospital gown, dead leaves blowing across the car park. He realised he was naked underneath. The coldness was welcome. It cut through the daze, helped clear the shock that fogged his brain.

Should he get to a phone, call the police? Something inside him fought the impulse. Get away, you have to get away. Trust no one but yourself. He needed answers, not the endless questions he'd get from the local coppers.

There was a range of expensive cars parked in front of the building. Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs. He'd never get them started. An old Nissan Sunny was parked shamefully behind the hazardous waste bins. Perfect, he thought to himself, bunching his gown around his fist and smashing it through the rear window.

He unlocked the front door and climbed in, pulling at the wires beneath the steering column, smiling as the connection was made and the engine coughed to life. The advantage of a misspent youth, some things you didn't forget. And in this situation any connection with the past felt good. He revved the engine hard, crunching through the gears and accelerating out of the car park. As he swerved onto the main road he saw a sign, pale blue text on a white background. “Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Research and testing.” One thing was clear, he hadn't been at a hospital.

He reached for the radio, wanting to hear something from the real world, something ordinary. It was starting to get dark, the drive time DJs were playing classic rock hits. Queen, Thin Lizzy. Normally he wouldn't be caught dead listening to dinosaur rock but tonight it made sense, the steady beat, the power chords, solid head-banging simplicity that kept his brain the right side of hysterical.

He passed a sign for Cambridge. He must be on one of the A-roads that circled the city. 20 miles it said. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn't turn up at College in a stolen car, half naked, with a full-on Robinson Crusoe beard. The head porter looked down his nose at him already, he'd take considerable delight in refusing to let him in.

There was only one thing for it, Amanda's house on Jesus Lane. Amanda was a junior doctor. Close to completing her final year of clinical. They'd been seeing each other on and off for a few weeks before he disappeared. She wasn't his usual type. She was independent, frighteningly bright and not afraid of speaking her mind. She was also an uninhibited, sensual lover and the switch from one personality to the other thrilled him.

Things had been going well, at least they'd gone well during the three dates and two nights they'd spent together. But that was before he'd disappeared. That was before he decided to turn up on her doorstep wearing nothing but a beard and a less-than-modest hospital gown.

He parked the Nissan as close to the house as he could. It was dark now. Half past five on a winter's evening and the street was almost deserted. He could feel his stomach rumbling. How long since he'd had solid food? Who knew? He leant his weight against the buzzer and waited. Footsteps padded down the stairs and a muffled voice said
be there in a sec.
Jack started to shiver.

“What the hell?” Amanda's housemate opened the door. Her voice was shrill, her face a picture of disgust. She tried to shut the door but Jack shoved his knee in the way. He grimaced as the door hit.

“Tara it's me, Jack, Jack Hartman. Amanda's friend. Is she around?” His voice still sounded strange to him. An old man's voice, wheezy and pained.

Tara squinted, unwilling to open the door, but her body language relaxed a little, she seemed to recognise him through the beard.

“Jack? Oh yes, I remember,” she pouted and tilted her head to one side, “aren't you the guy who hasn't called for three weeks?” she said sarcastically. Jack was too weak for explanations. “Can I just see Amanda please?” he said again.

“Afraid not. She's working at the hospital tonight. It's her turn to stitch up the drunken idiots that stumble into casualty on a Friday night. Talking of which, what the hell are you wearing?” She looked him up and down. “This better not be some stupid stunt you and your drinking society buddies are pulling,” she cast a glance warily up and down the street, half expecting to catch sight of a bunch of similarly dressed pissed-up students. Jack took advantage of her shift in posture to push past her into the hallway. The shivering was getting out of control. He pressed himself against a radiator. Tara looked at him more closely, taking in the shaking, the hunted look in his eyes. She finally seemed to realise this wasn't part of some stupid prank.

“What's going on Jack? Are you ok?” She asked. Questions, questions. Jack really wasn't in the mood.

“I'm fine, just need a lie down,” he replied hoarsely. He started to pull himself up the stairs, towards Amanda's bedroom, but he only made it half way, his energy all gone, his strength used up. He fell forwards, passing out on the third step. The hospital gown fell open, exposing him from the waist down. Tara shook her head and went to fetch a blanket. She covered him with it, casting an appraising eye over his naked lower half as she did so. Jack Hartman might be a nut job but she could see one very distinct advantage to going out with him.

Sir Clive drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. Dr.Calder was having trouble establishing a video link with Ed and the helicopter crew.

“Come on James, they'll be there in 20 minutes. I want an image feed.” They'd managed to get a chopper scrambled and an explosives expert on board within the hour, but Sir Clive hated not knowing what was going on. If he was taking responsibility for a situation he wanted full control. See it as it happened, give instructions. The screens flickered. Indistinct grey shapes moving against a black background, Ed's voice just audible above the static and thunder of the blades.

“On our way, Sir Clive. ETA is 6.30.”

“Switch to night vision Ed, we can't see a damn thing,” Sir Clive said into the control desk mic. A view of the cockpit in garish green filled the screens.

“You know the drill. In quickly, a ten point phosphorous charge. All I want left is cinders.”

“Roger Sir Clive. We're prepped and ready to go.”

“Excellent, we'll keep a visual but I'm closing down comms till you land. Mary's got some info on the man who got away.”

Mary Dalkeith handed Sir Clive a dull brown paper folder and took a seat at the table.

“These are the volunteers?” He asked. Mary nodded.

“Based on the visual we got from their security cams I've highlighted the most likely candidate. Patient ‘C'. Looks the right height and build.” Sir Clive scanned quickly over the details; his ability to analyse and memorise lists was a legend in the Service.

“I still don't understand why he woke up. I thought they would have pumped enough sedatives into him to keep an elephant down,” he said, eyes fixed on the page.

“People react differently, they metabolise at different rates. Depends on your size and level of fitness.” Dr.Calder replied. “An exceptional athlete might need a much higher dose, he looks quite fit in the CCTV footage.” Sir Clive grunted his dissatisfaction.

“What the hell is this?” he said, his finger jabbing at the patient's background details. “He's a Cambridge undergraduate? A King's Scholar?” He threw the paper down angrily. His fist banging the table.

“Did I not make myself clear in the brief? Did I not state explicitly that I wanted a bunch of no-hopers, junkies, losers and hobos for this trial? Invisible citizens. People no one misses. What were you thinking James? What the hell were you thinking?” Dr. Calder took a deep breath and swallowed.

“We passed that brief on to the lab,” he said quickly, his voice strained. “It was their responsibility to select the participants. We thought we'd made our views pretty clear.” Sir Clive ran a hand through his bristling white hair. He kept it cropped close to head. Impossible to manage at any other length.

“It is never, ever, someone else's responsibility in this business,” he said, stabbing his finger at Dr. Calder. “You should know that James, you've been here long enough. Check, double check, then check again. Every tiny detail. Shit.” He said, breathing deeply, bringing himself under control.

It wasn't just the fact that the patient would be missed that annoyed him. He was pissed off that they'd used a Cambridge student. The country was in a bad enough state as it was without risking the brightest minds of the next generation. He pushed the file away, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“What was the incubation period for the device?” He asked, his mind back on the practicalities of the task at hand.

“Three weeks inside the body, then it can survive outside the host. We don't know what its lifespan will be once it's been extracted. Could be a matter of days, could be months.” Dr. Calder replied. He knew Sir Clive's rages, although fierce while they burned, blew over quickly. He didn't labour a point. Didn't need to, if his staff made the same mistake twice they were out on their ear.

In the helicopter over Marcon Pharmaceuticals Ed Garner made a final check of the equipment. Remote detonators, heavy charges, and a hell of a lot of explosive. It was a simple task. A lot easier than usual. There were no hostiles to deal with for a start. Just a case of getting in and out as quickly as possible, ensuring there were no mistakes. The explosives expert the Service had provided him with looked pretty competent. A surly Scot named Gavin McCallister, who'd said about three words since they took off. Ed preferred it that way. The man's track record spoke volumes. Both Gulf Wars, insurgencies in the Sudan and Tchad. He'd certainly been around.

Ed tapped the pilot on the shoulder and signalled to Gavin that it was time. He clipped his belt to the guy line and tightened the wrist straps on his gloves. Down in one, he thought, leaning backwards into the chill night air, letting the rope take his weight. The helicopter reeled with the shift in weight, the downdraft from the blades flattening his hair across his forehead. Ed slid to the ground and detached himself from the cable. He flashed his torch twice, the signal to send down the gear. It made a high-pitched whizzing sound, landing with a thump. Gavin followed, touching down light as a feather. An expert. They waved the helicopter away, shifting the gear onto their backs, carrying out a quick scan of the building. In the torchlight, the fallen bodies cast ghoulish shadows on the walls, momentarily brought to jittery life by the flickering beam. Gavin didn't flinch; Ed suspected he'd seen a lot worse. They set the charges as instructed, enough phosphorous to create a hell of a firework display, then ran across one of the surrounding fields and took up position in a ditch. Ed handed the remote detonators to Gavin.

“Nice work, you can do the honours,” he said. In the darkness he thought he detected a ghost of a smile on the Scotsman's face. Gavin flicked up the plastic cover and pressed the red switch. There was that moment of doubt, that millisecond that lasts forever when you think it isn't going to blow, and then the sky lit up in a blaze of bright white light, fierce yellow flames that split the night. The explosive crash that followed. It must have been a hell of a sight for the motorists driving along nearby roads.

“Nice work Ed,” said Sir Clive's voice in his earpiece. Sometimes Ed longed for the days when they didn't have continual commentary in their ears from senior officers. It made him feel like a bloody TV presenter.

“Thanks. We're moving out. Fifteen mile run to the nearest town. We'll get changed there and be on the next train to debrief.” He replied.

“Hang on Ed, Mary has an ID for you, the guy who ran away. Possible location too.” Ed heard a shuffle and crackle as Mary moved towards the mic.

“Hello Ed, his name's Jack Hartman, a student at King's College. We need you to get there as quick as you can. But we want absolute discretion on this. Low profile observation, put your civvies on.” Sir Clive's voice interrupted her, “let me know as soon as you get an eyeball on him but don't for the love of God move in. I'm not about to cause a shit storm in my old University.”

Dr.Ahmed Seladin scrubbed at his fingernails. Blood was a stubborn stain to shift. The trick was not to let it dry. Five years studying at the Faculté de Médecinein Rabat, another ten years specialising in cardio-vascular surgery, then one stupid mistake and he was reduced to this. Carrying out gruesome work of a dubious scientific and moral nature for the highest bidder.

He checked himself in the mirror, his hair greying at the temples, thinning on the top. His brown eyes once filled with life and humour, now dull and indistinct.

It was the eyes that had got him into trouble, the eyes that had seduced the 17-year-old patient. Padma Rabhi, beautiful and skittish as an unbroken horse. She shivered at his touch, came to life in his embrace, gave herself wholly and generously to him. For a while he had even fooled himself he was in love with her, harboured thoughts of abandoning his childless wife. But then the father had found out, a prominent businessman with political connections. His revenge was swift and brutal.

It was only Ahmed's skill as a surgeon that had saved his life, enabled him to stitch himself up, stop the bleeding from the fierce cuts inflicted. But he couldn't save the life of Padma, taken away God knows where and slaughtered for the perceived shame she had brought on her family. And his career was finished. Her father made sure no hospital would ever offer him work again.

The only paths open to him now were the less conventional ones. The operations carried out illegally, plastic surgery in back street clinics, abortions for the mistresses of high-ranking government officials. That was how he'd come to be offered this job. His name had been whispered from one cheating husband to the next. An approach had been made. The money was good. Enough to buy him out of Casablanca, a new identity, maybe even set up a practice far away. South America, the Dominican Republic.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes now the same dull brown as the mud walls of the house he'd grown up in. A reminder of how far he'd come, and how far he'd fallen.

One of the mercenaries barged through the door without knocking, slapping him on the shoulder. “Come on Ahmed, you're taking longer to get ready than a whore on parade day,” he said, unzipping his trousers and pissing carelessly over the toilet seat.

Ahmed ignored him and filled the basin full of ice-cold water. A common soldier talking to him like that. He plunged his face into the basin, opening his eyes, holding his breath. He savoured the sensation he'd known as a child, the dizzying cold of the mountain streams he bathed in when the scorching sun got too much. Two days on the move, two days without sleep. And now this meeting with the man who'd commissioned the whole grisly expedition.

The solider stepped closer to him and placed an unwashed hand on his shoulder. “Come on Ahmed,” he said quietly, “they are waiting,” Ahmed sensed the power through the grip, the insistence in his eyes.

He flattened down his hair as best he could and straightened his tie, following the soldier into the main room. The briefcase sat on the coffee table. He didn't want to think about what it contained. He had no idea what they were, the tiny things, living but not in any form he recognised. Their workings were clearly visible, the interdependence of human tissue and cell-based technology, he just had no idea what their purpose was.

“Dr. Seladin, so pleased to meet you,” an urbane Chinaman, no more than five foot high and almost as wide at the waist as he was tall, stepped forward to greet him. Ahmed wasn't sure what he had been expecting but it wasn't this. The man was light on his feet, his bulk swaying from side to side like a spinning top, his greeting heavily garlanded in a French accent. The reference to Ahmed's title, although clearly an appeal to his vanity, did not go unappreciated.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. . . ,” he had no idea what to call the man. Arrangements had been conducted through a string of third parties. A range of fixers, assistants, brokers.

The Chinaman raised a forefinger to his lips and frowned. “Monsieur Blanc,” he said at last, “yes, I think that will do for the moment,” a knowing smile taking root, but his eyes untouched by it, emotionless and black. “I have ordered some refreshments,” he said gesturing towards a tray of cakes and a pot of tea.

“I know it is a little late in the day but I can never resist ordering an afternoon tea when I visit London. This hotel is particularly proficient at preparing it,” he continued, the smile still in place, forced and unpleasant.

Ahmed nodded. He could feel his stomach rumbling but a plate of pastries piled high with cream and custard was the last thing he wanted to eat.

“I trust the operations you had to perform ran smoothly, no damage to the extracted items?” Monsieur Blanc asked, carefully selecting a
millefeuille
then pouring tea through a strainer. Ahmed thought about the one he dropped. He had held it close to his ear, checked the tiny heart was still beating.

“No problems at all, I am pleased to say,” he replied.

“Excellent. Of course we never expected a surgeon of your calibre to encounter any serious difficulties. That is the case that contains them?” Monsieur Blanc pointed a chubby finger at the briefcase on the coffee table. Ahmed nodded. Two men appeared and took the case to the bedroom. Ahmed watched them through the open door as they removed the contents.

“I'm afraid they may be a few moments. They have to check everything is in order.” Monsieur Blanc said, sipping his tea. “Do you plan to remain long in London, take in the sights? It is such a diverting city, don't you think? One can find something to satisfy even the most unusual of appetites,” he said.

Ahmed rubbed his eyes. He couldn't tell if that was an allusion to his past, his affair with Padma or just innocent conversation. It wouldn't surprise him if Monsieur Blanc had compiled a dossier on him, knew every detail of his former life. He seemed like a very precise man, very careful. Ahmed didn't care either way. He was counting the minutes till he caught his flight home, money safely transferred to the account he had set up in the Cayman Islands.

“No plans to sightsee, Monsieur Blanc, perhaps another time.” He said, reaching forward and helping himself to a couple of cakes, realising he might not have another opportunity to eat for a while. One of the men returned from the bedroom, leant in close and whispered something in Monsieur Blanc's ear.

Ahmed didn't get to eat the cake, he watched in astonishment as it spun from his plate, kicked by a heavy boot across the room. Before he knew what was happening his forearms were pressed against the arms of the chair, two men with a vice like grip holding him down. Rough hands round his neck, the choking twist of material and the sound of laughter from behind him. The voice of the mercenary.

Monsieur Blanc rose to his feet, delicately wiping his hands on a serviette, taking his time, observing Ahmed's bulging eyes, the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. He moved behind him, sighing deeply. Amidst his panic Ahmed detected a peculiar scent, rose water. A distinctive and unsettling fragrance.

“Dr. Seladin, I am known for many things, but patience is not one of them. I will ask you once why you did not deliver all ten devices. You will have ten seconds to give a satisfactory answer, after which my friend here will tighten the belt around your neck until you wish you had given me a satisfactory answer. Do you understand?”

Ahmed tried to respond but the words got tangled in his throat. Monsieur Blanc checked his watch. “I make that six seconds now, Dr. Seladin.” He frantically tried to recall the afternoon's events. The order of things. He'd deliberately blocked it from his mind, a form of self-hypnosis, shut it all out. The belt squeezed against his larynx, a bitter taste in his throat, like he'd swallowed a bar of soap.

“Ok, alright,” he gargled. The grip relaxed. He counted the patients in his head. It was only then that he saw it, the empty bed. Invisible to him at the time, he hadn't thought anything of it. Everything had happened so fast. This was hardly his usual line of work.

“Nine patients” he tried to say, “only nine patients.”

“Nine patients or nine beds?” Monsieur Blanc replied, quick as a flash. Ahmed pictured the ward, the prostrate figures, innocent in death, sleeping silently as the bullet split their foreheads.

“Patients,” he said at last, “nine patients,” how could he be so stupid? The words dragged from inside of him. “So there was an empty bed?” Monsieur Blanc said. Ahmed nodded, unable to muster the strength for further explanations. The grip on his neck relaxed. Monsieur Blanc stepped away.

“Dr. Seladin, you put me in an awkward position. Very awkward.” He said, pacing up and down.

“Let me tell you what I am prepared to do,” he wagged a finger in Ahmed's direction. “My team will run some checks, pull whatever information we can from the lab's remote servers. You will wait here. When we have a name you will go with my team and you will finish the job you were paid to do. Is that clear?” He stepped towards Ahmed, his round face up close, filling his vision.

“
I said is that clear?
” Monsieur Blanc hissed, the words carried on a blast of rotten breath. Ahmed flinched, the putrid smell, mingled with the scent of rose water, like petals spread over open graves. The same smell you found on animals' breath, a wolf, a jackal, something that feasted on raw meat.