Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  He opened his brief case and passed a photo across the table. Clement Nbotou on a mobile phone, standing outside a bank on a sun-lit street in Zurich. He was in his business uniform, tailored suit and crisp white shirt. Gold-rimmed Christian Dior sunglasses glinting in the bright light.

  “Know who this is?” Sir Clive looked at the photograph. He nodded, but didn’t say the name out loud. “We’re aware of him. An intelligent and dangerous man. More so than your average self-styled general.”

  “Clement Nbotou. The man’s been building up a private army, taking over the area. He’s the reason we’re going into the red on this project.” Harvey tapped the photograph with his finger, he looked angry, as if Nbotou had set out to vex him personally.

  “What do you propose to do about him?” Sir Clive asked gently. Harvey shook his head and grinned, “we were sort of hoping you might be able to help us in that area. I know you led covert ops in Nigeria for the British Secret Service, and I know you have experience with jungle warfare, with separating and crushing militias. We want you to help us decide what to do.”

  Sir Clive frowned. It was a pitch, but they were trying to sell him a job, not a dodgy missile system.

  “No government, neither yours nor mine would sanction an invasion to secure supplies of a metal so it could be used to build weapons.” He said quickly, “Hell, the UN peace keepers couldn’t even stay in the region long enough to ensure the safety of the civilian population.” Sir Clive paused, thinking through the problem. “But they might be persuaded to go in on a covert basis, that’s if they thought there was an immediate risk to British or American security. The risk would have to be significant. Unprecedented even. The operation under the radar, no sections of the regular army involved.”

  Harvey nodded, satisfied he had judged his man correctly. By presenting him with a problem, he’d drawn him in. A man who couldn’t resist a challenge.

  Sir Clive had thought about the offer on the flight home. The terms of remuneration were more than generous. The conflict of interest with his work for MI6 considerable, but not insurmountable, not if he was discreet, kept matters to himself. He had spent half his career working in the shadows, pulling strings for a variety of government ministers and senior officials, even when he knew their requests were for personal rather than political reasons. Besides, now that he was running the new Cyber Crime division there would be no one to question his actions. Effectively he was his own boss, his brief was to use his judgement to assess and neutralise the perceived threat of web-based terrorism.

  No reason why he couldn’t do a little consulting for a large defence firm in the process. Set aside a nest egg to subsidise the paltry pension he would get from the Service. He reclined the chair and signalled to the stewardess to bring him a whisky, then sipped it slowly, allowing himself a rare moment of relaxation. In any case, regardless of Centurion’s motives, the only successful strategy they could employ was one that involved the defeat and removal of Clement Nbotou. And he was quite happy to advise them on how to do that.

  29

  Jack’s father and the MI6 surveillance team didn’t have to track the Mercedes for long. Three miles outside of Cambridge the car pulled into a private airport where a chartered jet waited to take Monsieur Blanc and his cargo to Africa.

  “Target group entered airfield at 2100 hours. No plane has taken off yet.” One of the MI6 officers said into his radio mic. They’d parked away from the main entrance, taken up positions around the airfield and had their night vision binoculars trained on the private jets lined up beside the runway.

  “Keep your eyes on the scene. We’ll get satellite tracking on whatever flights leave there during the next couple of hours. See if you can get the registration from the tail too.” Sir Clive replied, knowing full well the flight would be headed to the private airstrip Clement Nbotou had built for himself in the Eastern Congo. You had to admire the entrepreneurial spirit of the man. The runway gave him the ability to fly in supplies of weapons, including heavy armaments, and transport out his coltan without any interference from the state. A considerable advantage over his competitors.

  “Will do. One more thing, Sir Clive. There’s someone else watching the airport. His car was following the Mercedes. Discretely though. Moved behind us, then in front, then drifted away. Classic surveillance tactics.” Sir Clive pursed his lips.

  “Get as close as you can and get an eyeball on him, but don’t let yourself be seen. Primary target is Monsieur Blanc and the flight.”

  Sir Clive had his suspicions about the unexpected observer, but he didn’t expect any trouble from the man. He knew Jack’s father had been a drunk long enough to nullify any threat he might pose to the mission. And if suddenly decided to sober up, well, he would just have to be taken out of the equation.

  Runway ready, clear for take-off. The pilot’s voice projected into the cabin, tinny through the speaker system. Monsieur Blanc tensed in his seat, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He had flown in private jets on numerous occasions, but compared with a large commercial airliner they felt considerably less stable. He tried not to think about landing on the strip of tarmac Clement Nbotou had cleared in the jungle.

  As the plane accelerated upwards into the night, he twisted his neck and looked out the window. A cloudless blue-black sky over the east of England, towns and cities dissolving into yellow string beads over the landscape. Jack was still out for the count. Sleeping off the sedative. Monsieur Blanc hadn’t checked how much he had given him. He hoped it was enough to keep him under for at least eight hours, the time needed to fly to the Congo, land and hopefully extract the device.

  “You don’t want to attempt to take it now?” His assistant asked once they were airborne. He had shrugged in that Gallic way he picked up during his time in Paris.

  “I don’t know where to extract it from, and this isn’t my plane,” he replied. The assistant had looked puzzled. “The mess, think of the mess,” Monsieur Blanc said, gesturing around him. The jet Centurion had provided was high spec. A top of the range Lear complete with thick carpet and comfy leather seats. Not the sort of environment in which to perform impromptu and messy surgery with a flick knife and spoon. The assistant had nodded.

  “I’ll check he’s secured tightly. Don’t want him waking up and throwing a fit.” He said, heading to the rear of the plane where Jack was gaffer-taped to a luggage rack.

  The sedatives had worked through Jack’s body quickly. They might have kept a smaller man under for several hours but Jack could already feel the grogginess subsiding. He’d opened his eyes a fraction. Listened to the sounds that surrounded him, the low rumble of the jet engines, the rush of the air conditioning in the cabin. Two large black boots on the floor in front of him. A hand roughly grabbed his hair and tilted his head back, then checked the tape held him securely.

  The black boots retreated. “He’ll be fine. No signs of life. Other than a pulse.” Jack wondered where they going. Try as he might he couldn’t move his hands. The tape held him tight. And his stomach ached from where the device had been re-inserted into him. It was close to the surface, but sitting hunched over on the floor meant it dug deep into him. And the local anaesthetic was wearing off. He wondered if Sir Clive was tracking the flight. Somehow he doubted it. For whatever reason, the man had let him be taken. An awful realisation was forming in Jack’s mind. Not the fact that they would try and forcibly remove the device when they landed, or the imminent danger he would face from the people who had abducted him once he had taken the device. No, it was the thought that he should have listened to his father after all. And the old man would never let him forget it.

  30

  Centurion Offices, L.A.

  “Everything go according to plan?” Harvey Newman asked into his cell phone, pacing up and down the length of his office. He was feeling frustrated after the meeting with the Secretary of State. It had not gone well. She was threatenin
g to cancel the order; there were whispers of cuts in the defence budget. Heavy hints that the administration was less than happy at the blank cheques they were being asked to write to protect what firms like Centurion referred to obliquely as national security.

  She was impressed with the capabilities of the weapon though, that much was clear. And if the American government was thinking of cancelling its multi-billion dollar contract Harvey had suggested he might need to recoup costs by selling to a regime that had less respect for democracy than the good old US of A. Hidden threats, intimations. The usual boardroom bullshit. Always made him tetchy. Plus he was keen to get an update from Sir Clive about the tenth device. They needed to get the full set to Nbotou, needed the excuse to invade.

  Sir Clive was thinking over Harvey’s question. Had things gone to plan? Not exactly, but they were still on track, no reason to panic. Yet.

  “I suppose it depends whose plan you mean,” he’d replied, “Monsieur Blanc’s on his way to the Congo with the ten devices, only problem is one of them is still in the boy.”

  “No shit.” Harvey had replied.

  “And there’s a body count of two mercenaries and one disgraced Moroccan doctor in a Cambridge College which is going to take a hell of lot of explaining.” Sir Clive said, realising it was unlikely he’d be invited back to any formal dinners at King’s for the foreseeable future.

  “What went down?” Harvey asked.

  “The doctor got cold feet and turned on Monsieur Blanc. Didn’t trust him to pay up. He’s no soldier and I suppose the mission got too much for him. Monsieur Blanc ended up drugging the boy and bundling him into a plane.”

  “Wonder how our friend Clement will react.” Harvey said under his breath.

  “If Monsieur Blanc can’t remove the device during the flight I suspect the general will have no qualms about cutting it out of the boy himself. Either that or he’ll get one of his child soldiers to do it.”

  “Not a happy ending for the kid.” Harvey replied. Sir Clive gritted his teeth, “no, unfortunately not. But the thing we need to concern ourselves with now is the practicalities of taking over Nbotou’s operation. As soon Monsieur Blanc meets with Nbotou we’ll have all the excuse we need to take him out.”

  “How are you going to play it with the government ministers?” Harvey asked. It sounded like he was chewing something, a pen lid, something that clicked against his teeth. Sir Clive never ceased to be amazed at the man’s lack of common courtesy.

  “I’ll leave it a few hours, then call an emergency meeting. Let them know intelligence has come to light about a perceived threat to the UK’s cyber security. Suggest we deal with that threat sooner rather later, don’t want to let it fester.”

  “That all you need to say?” Harvey said, his voice disbelieving. “Sometimes less is more, Mr. Newman. Besides, we’re not asking them to sanction the invasion of an entire country, engage the nation’s army in a long and protracted war with no clear exit strategy. All we want is permission to send a small group of highly trained men into an area of the Congo so we can take out a ruthless and thoroughly unpleasant man. A man who, it appears from our intelligence, has a long term plan to undermine the cyber security of the United Kingdom.”

  “Hmm,” was all Harvey could say in reply. He was impressed with Sir Clive’s confidence. A sensation so rare he didn’t have any words to describe how he felt.

  “Well, I’m about to leave for the airport now with the senior strategy team. Once you’ve got the go-ahead from the suits give me a call. We’re flying in Big Bird so we need . . . ”

  “You’re flying in what?” Sir Clive couldn’t help but interrupt.

  “Big Bird, the company 747. I leant the Lear to Monsieur Blanc. Means we need to land at a major airport. I’ve got some hardware I want to show you. The prototype weapons. Be glad to let your boys get tooled up and fire off a couple of rounds into the Congo. Sort of like a live field test. See how they work in a combat situation.”

  “We’ll see.” Sir Clive said, with an appropriate degree of circumspection. He wasn’t about to send a highly specialised and experienced team into a covert op with untested weapons. It was bad enough having the man interfere with his strategy for dealing with Nbotou. He half-expected him to turn up with a troop of trigger-happy contract soldiers on an hourly rate.

  31

  Clement wrapped a plaster round his thumb, the cut was deep and it was hard to stem the flow of blood. The girl was wild, she had fought like a tiger, bitten hard even after Uko’s attempt to sedate her. He had left her tied to the bed, the ugly welts his belt had left on her arms and legs glowing deep purple again the skin. Didn’t bother to lock the door. He was not finished with her yet.

  “Come Sir, have some food.” Uko called out from the bottom of the stairs, a smile on his lips and an open bottle of beer in his hand. Clement nodded and walked slowly towards him, his pistol fastened in its holster by his side. He seldom used it. He preferred the sheathed machete that hung carelessly over his shoulder. Much better for delivering the brutal justice he needed to keep control over the soldiers. He took the beer from Uko and stepped outside, pouring a small amount onto the ground, a salve for his ancestors, before draining the rest of the bottle in two swallows. Uko handed him another.

  “The chef has cooked up mwamba. Just as you like it, spicy with chicken and cassava. And some of the boys smoked you some bush meat.” A child appeared by Clement’s side, a young boy, no more than six or seven wearing a torn Manchester United football shirt that came down to his knees. His eyes were large and solemn as he held up a plate of smoked meat. Clement waved the flies off the pinkish flesh and shovelled a handful into his mouth. Smoked monkey, he recognised its distinctive sweetness, the tough but flavoursome texture of the lean muscles. He was surprised there were any left to hunt the way the soldiers went after them.

  He knelt down beside the boy, placing a large hand under his chin and tilting his head upwards. He looked deep into his eyes. “Did you shoot this meat?” He asked. The boy shook his head, “No sir, used wire, made a snare to trap the animal. I can show you.”

  Clement’s eyes burnt into him, seeking out the truth. He believed the boy, but he knew that while he was away the troops often took pot shots at animals in the jungle. An attempt to vary their diet. Eat something other than cassava. He didn’t mind them catching animals but he couldn’t stand them wasting ammunition.

  “Here, take some meat,” he said, letting go of the boy. “Have a beer too. Uko, fetch this young soldier a beer.” He patted the boy on the head and walked down the veranda’s steps to begin his unofficial tour of the camp.

  32

  Jack shuffled his feet uneasily. The pain in his side increasing, exacerbated by the position he was taped in, but he wanted to try and move as much as he could. Make sure his body didn’t go to sleep so he’d have a fighting chance once they untied him.

  It was quiet on board the aircraft. The lights were dimmed, his captors evidently felt sufficiently secure to sleep with him trussed up in the back of the plane. Jack had been doing some thinking. He knew it would be foolish to rely on Sir Clive, he understood he was just a pawn in whatever game the man was playing and could in no way trust him. He had thought it through, and in thinking had come to the conclusion he had only one realistic hope of survival. He would tell Monsieur Blanc the whole thing was a set up. The devices didn’t work, didn’t do anything, they were just a Trojan horse, a way for MI6 to discover who might launch a cyber attack on the UK. If he went ahead and sold them he’d be putting himself in danger, no way of proving he wasn’t in on the deception, particularly as he would have profited financially.

  That was his angle, but how to get the man’s attention? If he tried to talk to them would they simply stick another needle in him? Only one way to find out.

  “Sir, sir,” he whispered hoarsely. Might as well begin this by being as respectful as possible. Nobody stirred. He c
ould hear a light snore coming from the end of the cabin, Monsieur Blanc’s heavy head resting on his fat neck.

  “Excuse me,” he said a little louder. The snoring turned into a grunt and stopped.

  “Hello, is anyone there?” No response. “Sorry to bother you but could I possibly have a drink? Just some water?” He heard a leather seat creak and the sound of footsteps padding along the carpet. Above him the fat Chinaman wiped his eyes and sighed. He had removed his jacket and looked oddly informal in a shirt and trousers. Almost vulnerable. Just a shame Jack couldn’t move enough against the gaffer tape to swing a fist at him. Monsieur Blanc looked down on him and sniffed dismissively, then walked away. Jack hoped he wasn’t going to get the needle. He didn’t want the last thing he ever saw to be the face of an overweight arms dealer plunging a syringe into his neck.

  The man returned with a glass of water. He knelt down beside Jack. In the strange half light of the cabin Jack couldn’t see his eyes. Just two dark shadows under the heavy lids. Monsieur Blanc looked at him for some time, before holding the glass of water up to his mouth and tilting it so he could swallow. He knew better than to untie one of the boy’s arms. Knew it would be around his neck in an instant if he did so. Jack drank thirstily, feeling some of the cold liquid dribble down his chin. Monsieur Blanc dabbed at it with a paper serviette. An oddly considerate gesture. He remained opposite, looking at him, working him out.

  “Thank you,” Jack said. For the first time he noticed the smell. The sweet heavy scent of roses mingled with something else. Something unpleasant. Halitosis thick enough to fell an elephant. Even harsher than his Professor at King’s. Jack couldn’t help but turn his head to one side, take a deep breath and clear his throat.