“That’s odd,” she said, opening the curtains.
“What is?” Jack replied, getting dressed.
“That man, standing there by the phone booth. I’m sure he was there earlier.” Jack shrugged.
“Really? Perhaps you have a secret admirer,” he said, heading downstairs. “Just going to grab myself something else to eat before we leave,” he called out over his shoulder.
His stomach was feeling better, but it wasn’t food he was after. Privately he was worried by what Amanda said. He opened the drawers, careful not to make too much noise. He was looking for a knife. Something easily concealed, practical in a closed fist. One thought still nagged at him, the fear he hadn’t shared, that they’d be after him. Whoever they were, whatever it was they wanted. He needed to be prepared, as prepared as he could be. He found a sturdy-looking kitchen knife with a short blade, wrapped the point in a jay cloth and stuffed it in his sock. A distant memory came back as he did so, childhood fears and the need to fend for himself.
Italy, an army base on the outskirts of Napoli. 13 years old. His dad stationed there with the regiment, dropping him off at the local school, telling him to learn some Italian and get on with it. Sink or swim son, sink or swim. Jack had swum, for a while at least. Fluent in Italian within a couple of months and the star of the class football team. But his success made him a target for the older boys. He took a couple of beatings on the way home from school. If his older brother had still been around things would have been different. But he wasn’t.
Things turned nasty when one of the boys, out to impress the girls who gathered by the fountain in the town square, pulled a flick-knife and waved it in his face. More angry than afraid, Jack piled into him, dishing up a bloody nose, flooring the boy and scarpering. The boy vowed revenge, swore he would get his friends in the Camorra to cut him to pieces.
Jack knew enough about the honour of small-town Italian males to take the threat seriously. It had taken some persuading, but eventually he’d got one of the soldiers, a Geordie named Alfie, to show him how to handle a blade, how to fight dirty. Alfie had been busted out of Special Forces for insubordination—that was the official line. The truth was his commanding officer had been concerned he was taking a little too much pleasure in the more gruesome aspects of his work. A liability in the elite fighting squads of the SAS and SBS. But there was no denying his skill with a blade, and Jack was so quick to learn, so perfectly balanced, that Alfie almost forgot the deathly intent behind the lessons he was teaching, caught up in the simple pleasure of passing on his hard-earned and well-practised skill.
Jack didn’t have to wait long to put those skills into practice. A quiet Sunday morning. The backstreet shortcut to the bakers. Church bells echoing down the shabby, careworn street. Washing criss-crossing the narrow gap between the buildings, flapping in the breeze. A moped sped past, then another. An ear-splitting Mosquito whine. More noise than performance, Jack thought. Typical Italians.
The two bikes stopped, 20 metres ahead, blocking the street. He looked behind him. Three people walking casually. Not boys, not teenagers, but men. Nowhere to go. They walked slowly, all the time in the world.
Three men against a 13-year-old boy. Jack shook his head; he was tall for his age and well-built, but this would be a walk-over. He felt for the flick knife in his jacket pocket. Could he really do it? He thought. Never mind that. Would he even get a chance? Five of them. He would be surrounded in a moment.
The most important thing to look for is how he carries himself, which side takes the weight. Lesson number one. Alfie’s voice coming back to him. All very well if you were fighting one person. The three men sauntered towards him. The leader was a wiry man with a cruel thin face and black hair swept back, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tracksuit top. He whistled tunelessly, atonal, irritating, before spitting on the ground in front of Jack.
“We’re going to teach you a lesson,” he said, his voice dull, as if bored by the inevitability of the sadistic outcome he was about to inflict. Jack watched him closely, watched as he slowly drew a knife from his pocket, locked the blade in place, let it hang casually by his side. He was surprised to find he felt no fear, only a curious nervousness, a perverse excitement.
Surprise your attacker. Use any means at your disposal to put him off guard. Lesson number two. Jack hunched his shoulders and stepped back, allowed his body to shake, bit hard into his lip so it bled, did his best to conjure up the paralysing fear he didn’t feel. One final element, he let himself go, warm urine running down his leg, a dark stain forming on his trousers. The men laughed, the one holding the blade turned his head back to his friends, ridiculing him in the harsh sounds of the Neapolitan dialect.
Didn’t matter. He’d taken his eyes off his target. Jack stepped forward quickly, the man’s knife hand brushed aside, the blade up into his armpit, dragged down across his belly then onto the next man. The man was too stunned to react, watching in horror as handfuls of intestines slipped out of his friend’s stupefied grasp.
Jack went low, two jabs to the thighs, the heel of the knife into the man’s chin, the hard crack of the metal handle on the jaw bone. He dropped like a sack of semolina. The third man reached into his pocket, tried to adopt a fighting position. Too late. Jack dug the blade into his hand, twisting it on the way out just as he’d been taught, kicked as hard as could into his groin. The man collapsed.
The two mopeds fired up and raced towards him. One rider waved a golf club, swinging it clumsily at him. Jack ducked. The bike skidded, crashed into a doorway. Jack jumped over it, off down the street as fast as he could. At the end of the road a motor bike waited for him, revving its engine impatiently. Alfie sitting on it, no helmet, broad grin in place.
“Hurry up man. I canney wait all day.” Jack jumped onto the back, holding on tight.
“Ah think even ah wudda had a problem dealing with alla them fellas at wunce.” He said in his thick Geordie accent. Somehow Jack doubted that. A coldness had come over him. He felt neither elation nor regret. His heart rate barely raised above its resting rate throughout the entire episode. He felt in control. He knew he had it, the thing his father possessed, the thing his mother could never understand. The ability to take a quiet, emotionless satisfaction in a brutal task. A profound burden for a boy to carry into adulthood.
“Shit Alfie. I forgot to buy any bread,” he said.
9
Ahmed Seladin sat in the back of the British Gas van, nails chewed down to the quick, eyes gritty and tired. Another night without sleep. Another day tangled up in this nightmare, cramped and uncomfortable. Speeding along unknown roads, through unfamiliar cities. The man opposite looked at him and shook his head.
“Not used to this type of work are you my friend? You need to toughen up. Stay alert. No mistakes this time.” Another of the Chinaman’s goons. A seemingly indestructible force, capable of storming through each day without stopping for something as ridiculous and unnecessary as sleep.
“You have the injection ready?” He said. The plan was a quick snatch. Grab the boy and bundle him into the van, get the sedative in as quickly as possible. The floor was covered with plastic sheeting, ready for Dr. Seladin’s scalpel.
“Here,” Ahmed said, taking a loaded syringe from his flight case. “Jab it in the neck and squeeze. He’ll be out in a second. Just try not to stab yourself with it in the meantime,” he added sarcastically. The man gave him a cold look.
There were two other heavies in the van. Silent, awkward in their civilian clothes. They’d assumed that strange posture veteran soldiers adopt before battle, alert but relaxed, a heightened state of readiness with a minimum amount of physical effort.
“Go! Go! Target is in the open!” The driver shouted. Movement all around, Ahmed pressed himself against the side of the van as the doors swung outwards, avoiding the flailing arms and legs of the men clambering past, sprinting down the street. He caught sight of the man emerging from the house
, took in his height and build. For one brief moment Ahmed found himself hoping he might land a punch or two on the heavies, make life a little harder for them.
It all happened so quickly Ed Garner barely had time to react. He was scanning the text file he’d been sent on Amanda’s family and friends. The noise of the van doors swinging outwards and three sets of feet charging down the street made him look up. He saw their intention, the speed with which they were closing down the space. No way of getting there in time.
Amanda was on the doorstep, Jack behind her. Ed needed back-up. He couldn’t dive in on his own, waving his service issue revolver. Goodness knows what kit they had with them, what was in the van. He sent the emergency signal. Switched to camera mode, got the van, the number plate. Back to the attackers. They were on the boy now, one heading straight for him, two peeling off to one side.
“Come on Jack!” Amanda’s voice from the doorway. “Cab’s waiting outside.”
Jack saw them before he was fully out the house. Three galloping forms out the corner of his eye. It was his reaction speed that saved him. The fraction of a second to prepare, set your balance, position so you can use the speed of your attacker against him. And he knew they wouldn’t suspect he could fight.
He yanked hard at Amanda’s hooded top, pulling her behind him into the house, slamming the door so she was trapped inside. The first man was on him, Jack bent low, in one smooth movement the knife pulled from his sock, slammed it upwards, the weight of the man rolled him over his shoulder, the blade straight, tearing through exposed skin.
The attacker collapsed backwards, clutching his neck, an arterial spray of blood through his closed hand. Jack didn’t stop, low with the knife at the second attacker, swerving to avoid something, the point of a needle veering close to his eye. Swinging the blade to his right, sending him off balance, then a crippling punch to the man’s kidneys, a hard right into his neck. Enough to send him spluttering backwards. They weren’t armed, Jack realised. He might actually win this.
A grip, strong as iron from behind. The third man pinning his arms to his sides. He kicked back, scraping his heel over the knee cap, hard as he could. The man grunted, the vice loosened. Jack stabbed wildly behind him, into the man’s thigh—after the neck, the easiest point to hit a major artery. A thumping at the door behind them, Amanda pushing it outwards, cricket bat in her hand. He heard it crack into the man’s head, not once but twice. The man released his grip, dropped to the ground.
“Come, quickly,” she said, pulling him towards the taxi waiting further down the street. They ran hard, dived into the back seat.
“Addenbrookes hospital!”
The driver didn’t hear. His head bobbing up and down, tinny Turkish pop music from his headphones. Jack yanked them off the man’s ears.
“Addenbrookes!” he said again.
“Sorry, my friend. Very good tune. You know?” He pulled slowly away from the kerb, oblivious to the fracas in the street behind him.
Jack looked over his shoulder. At least they were on the move. Three bodies in the street. Two of them getting awkwardly to their feet. The third immobile on the ground. A mess. As the cab turned the corner, he was surprised to see a British Gas van pull up alongside the bodies. They clambered inside, heaving the third man with them. Jack resisted the temptation to make a bad joke about Amanda not paying her gas bill.
Ed was stunned. He could not quite believe what he just witnessed. The boy had taken out three professionals. Three men floored as if they were straw-stuffed scarecrows. Well, with a little help from the blonde. He forwarded the footage to HQ. Taxi. Where was a bloody taxi? Never one when you needed it. No matter. He had the number plate and the name of the mini-cab firm Jack and the girl had used. He could find out easily enough where they were headed.
10
Sir Clive watched the footage Ed had sent, a large hand ruminatively rubbing his square chin. The boy had a talent for fighting, no doubt about it. And two of the moves he pulled Sir Clive remembered from his own SAS training many years before. Was that what teenagers spent their time doing these days? Learning Kung Fu and street fighting techniques? Somehow he doubted it.
“Mary, can you run a background check on the boy’s immediate family? I want to know if there’s any connection with the armed forces.” He said. Mary nodded, entering the information into the Service’s databases.
Something about the way Jack handled himself put Sir Clive in mind of a young solider he’d known at the Herefordshire base, long time ago. A legendary figure, even amongst those for whom extraordinary feats of physical strength and endurance were the norm.
“No records for his mother. Not much for his father either. Last known address was a semi in Croydon, south London. No occupation listed, no background information and no other immediate family.”
“Thanks Mary.” He suspected there might have been a change of name somewhere along the line. An attempt to shake off an old identity. A lot of men who were ex-regiment did that. It wasn’t so much for security as the need to make a clean break from the past. A new life amongst the civilians.
A knock at the door. “Sir Clive, we’ve pulled the records from the mini-cab firm. They’re headed to Addenbrookes Hospital, research wing,” one of the Information Analysts announced. A bright lad who didn’t yet look old enough to shave. Sir Clive nodded.
“Thanks. I want the chopper scrambled, I’m going there myself. Mary, keep an eye on things here. I might need you to run some further checks.”
Something about the footage he had seen made Sir Clive less inclined to trust the retrieval of Jack and the device inside of him to anyone else. This was a task that would require more than brute force. He pulled out his phone.
“Ed, I’m on my way to Cambridge, in the chopper. Target is heading to the Hospital and so am I. I need you to stay with the British Gas van. Do not let it out of your sight. I’m authorising you to use any means possible, take charge of any property you need, but make sure you don’t lose sight of it.”
“Will do Sir Clive,” Ed replied. He was already behind the wheel of a stolen Ford fiesta, following the van along the ring road and out of the city. That was the problem in a student town, most of the cars were old bangers. Still, the traffic was horrendous. No need for speed at the moment.
Ahmed Seladin pulled the thread tight, neatly tying the suture and wiping the cut with disinfectant, ignoring a jolt as the van hit a bump in the road. The third set of stitches he’d put in since the debacle outside the house. He leant back to admire his work.
“You are lucky. I am a very neat surgeon.” He said, “scarring will be kept to a minimum.” Privately he was rather proud of the work. The back of a moving vehicle was not an ideal place to carry out such a precise operation, especially with the floor all wet and slippery with blood.
His patient didn’t reply, too weak. Ahmed suspected he might not make it, not without a transfusion. He wasn’t too concerned about that, he was more concerned about the reaction they would get from the Chinaman when he learnt of their failure.
11
The taxi pulled up outside Addenbrookes. Jack opened the door and climbed out, realising he had no wallet, no money on him whatsoever.
“Did you bring any cash?” He asked Amanda sheepishly. She nodded and handed a twenty-pound note to the driver, telling him to keep the change and forget he’d had them in his cab. Jack wasn’t sure if that was the best tactic. The driver was far more likely to remember the passenger who left a big tip and made a point of asking to be forgotten than the countless other fares he picked up, but he didn’t say anything. He’d put Amanda through enough already.
They’d sat in silence during the journey. Jack had reached out for her hand, worried at how cold it felt. She’d barely noticed his touch, eyes staring blankly ahead, a glass wall of shock between her and the outside world. Jack tried to think of something to say but he couldn’t, nothing meaningful.
“Yo
u were great Amanda. Fantastic.” Her head didn’t move, it was as if she hadn’t heard him. The shock went deep. Shock at her own reaction to the attackers, as effective as the situation demanded. Shock at Jack’s calm response. His seeming ability to shrug it off with barely a second thought. But most of all shock at his face the moment before he pulled her back into the house, before the door slammed. A hint of a smile. On his lips as he turned to face his attackers. It was the smile that bothered her the most.
He followed her through the automatic doors towards reception. These places always smelt the same. The unpleasant tang of disinfectant, synthetic citrus and bleach.
“Can you tell Dr. Anne Fitzgerald that Amanda Marshall is here please,” she said. The receptionist picked up the phone without looking up. They didn’t have to wait long. Dr. Fitzgerald burst through the door to their left, curly hair extending in an uncontrolled frizz from all angles, heavy-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose and a pair of slightly too large Birkenstock sandals on her feet.
“Hey Mands. God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I thought Jack was the one that had been on the dodgy clinical trial.”
Amanda stood still, arms at her side as her friend embraced her warmly.
“You okay?” She said, hands on her shoulders, her gaze professional and assessing. Amanda nodded, but didn’t speak, didn’t make eye contact.
“We had a bit of a difficult journey. I’ll explain all about it once we get somewhere more private.” Jack said, aware the receptionist was beginning to register their presence.
“Ok sure, follow me,” Anne replied, swiping her card and leaning into the door. She placed a protective arm around Amanda, throwing a less-than-trusting glance over her shoulder at Jack.
Decoy Page 4
