Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  “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.”

  43

  Jack awoke to a searing pain in his abdomen, two blurred figures above him, a waking nightmare. Red droplets fell from the hands of one of the men, a low voice muttering in French. Blackness soaked into the edge of his vision. Blotting out the light but something above him glinted, sunlight on water. A chandelier? In his side a rat, wriggling about in his intestines, trying to claw its way out, skin stretched to breaking point, surface torn. Distant voices from another world.

  There, clean this up. We’ll add it to the other devices.

  What are you going to do with him? Let him bleed out? Drop him in the jungle?

  An ominous silence. I’ll put in some stitches. Keep him breathing for now. Clement made it quite clear he doesn’t want a white body buried on his lands. Never know who might turn up looking for it. And it’s better he stays alive till we can dump him in the bush. A dead body will start to stink in this humidity.

  Two sets of footsteps moving away. One came back, splashed something over the wound. This time the pain was too much, the bite of the alcohol sterilising the wound, and Jack blacked out.

  Despite any lack of formal training, Monsieur Blanc was well-practised at carrying out impromptu surgery. He had dealt with his fair share of injuries, some more serious than others, and his stubby fingers were remarkably dextrous. He stood back to admire his work: the stitches were neat and well-tied, the wound looked clean.

  He had another reason for keeping the boy alive. The device had been close to the surface, not connected to the surrounding tissue as Dr. Seladin had led him to believe. The isolation of the unit within the body bothered him. If was not connected to living organic matter, then why embed it in a living host in the first place? It supported the story Jack had spun. The notion the devices did nothing . . . either he or Clement were being set up and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

  He wiped the boy’s forehead, scalded red from where they’d left him in the sun.

  “The operation was a success I hear?” Monsieur Blanc jumped. It was Clement’s voice booming from the doorway.

  “Yes, easy to retrieve the device. You have the full set now. Should be able to move them on to to your buyer.” Monsieur Blanc replied. Clement waved his hand impatiently.

  “Come, leave business talk for later. Now we eat. Mwamba, jungle stew, spicy as you like it.” Monsieur Blanc nodded, pouring some of the alcohol disinfectant over his hands and drying them with a pocket-handkerchief. He hated the chewy, spicy, unidentifiable bits of meat Clement served up, but it would not do to give offence and refuse it. Especially not when the boy soldiers that served them would be half-starving.

  Clement walked over to where Jack lay, leant his head over the boy’s mouth, felt the faint whisper of breath on his ear.

  “Still alive. You did a good job. Maybe I’ll call you next time instead of visiting my doctor in Switzerland.” Monsieur Blanc forced a laugh. “I fear that would be something of a mistake. I can stitch up a knife wound. At a push I might be able to dig out a bullet, cauterise the veins, but that is all. Battl
efield surgery. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to perform the expert plastic surgery that keeps you looking so young.”

  Clement roared with laughter and clapped Monsieur Blanc on the shoulder. “You flatter me, mon ami. Now, what about this boy,” he surveyed the prostrate body lying on the makeshift operating table. Took in the size of the man, the muscular build.

  “I am thinking we might be wise to put a guard or two on this room,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Just in case he wakes up.”

  “Agreed,” Monsieur Blanc nodded. “And make sure they’re armed. He has a tendency to struggle. Now, where is this famous jungle stew of yours?”

  44

  RAF Hercules, over Democratic Republic of Congo

  The night sky was blue-black. Patchy clouds but otherwise no cover. The bone-rattling Hercules was not the best plane from which to jump, but at short notice they had to take what was available. No chance of resting up during the flight either, the thunderous racket from the props saw to that.

  Ed Garner made his way along the fuselage, stopping to talk briefly with each member of the team in a combination of sign language and shouts above the roar of the engines. He wanted to check they were fully prepped but he also needed to keep himself busy, keep his mind off the drop. That was the worst bit, so many things could go wrong. Wind speed calculated incorrectly, a mistake by the navigator that left them miles from their target, equipment failures, primary chute not opening, secondary chute not opening. Ed had been in the armed forces long enough to see it all. He would be happier once the team were safely on the ground and in position. He opened the cockpit door, closing it behind him. The roar of the engines fell away. The one area of the plane that had some kind of noise insulation.

  “How long till we reach the drop zone?” He asked the co-pilot. “Twenty minutes. Make your final checks. We’ll be opening the loading doors, need to get you guys out as close together as possible.”

  “Fine,” Ed said, his jaw clenched. “What are we cruising at?”

  “Twenty-thousand feet, but we’ll bring it down to fifteen for the jump.” The co-pilot had no idea what the men in the back of his plane were going to do once they hit the ground. He didn’t need to know, wasn’t in his job description. Just fly them to the co-ordinates on the map and open the doors. Ed nodded his thanks and returned to his men.

  “Final checks please boys. We’re jumping in 20.” A flurry of arms and kit from the men, faces streaked with black and dark green camouflage paint. Parachutes hefted onto broad shoulders, safety catches checked.

  Ed walked down the plane to the loading doors. The rear of the plane was alive with vibrations, metal rattling against metal. Even noisier here than in the middle of the fuselage. He pressed the intercom that linked to the cockpit.

  “How long to drop zone?” Ed asked into intercom.

  “Ten minutes, line up your men. Over.” The pilot’s voice crackled back. Ed signalled to his men to get in position. Once the cargo doors were open they’d drop in pairs. A dangerous jump because of the darkness and the size of the clearing they had to land on. Wind speed was low, seven knots, but still enough to carry them into the trees if they didn’t all get out in time.

  The rear doors opened slowly, a rush of air through the aircraft, a high-pitched whine, the sound of the engines even louder. The men waited for the command, faces tense, concentrated, adrenalin pumping through their blood.

  “You’re clear. Go! Go! Go!” The pilot’s voice bellowed through the intercom. The men stepped forwards, ready for the jump. Ed watched them go. When the last pair had left, he stepped to the edge of the cargo doors. He braced himself for that moment when his body would drop like a stone but his stomach would stay in the same place. Solid ground to nothing in under a second, cold air streaming past, loud as a waterfall. Ground rushing towards you. From here on in it was all instinct.

  45

  Far below Monsieur Blanc, Gustav and Uko chewed their way through the stringy meat that made up the stew, forcing laughter at the stories told by Clement, swatting the occasional mosquito that found its way through the netting over the windows. They listened to his tales of jungle warfare. Of the village he had grown up in, the battles he had won, the booby traps he had fitted to his Maybach.

  “Anyone tries to take that car they’ll find they don’t have a leg to stand on,” he said wiping his lips. “And I mean that literally. Charges go off at waist height.”

  Whenever he had important guests Clement liked to serve food in the formal dining room. Walls lined with tarnished and cracked mirrors, jungle vines creeping through cracks that had opened up in the window frames, green tendrils trying to reclaim the house as their own. A reminder to those present that the Congo was not an area a Colonial power could hold on to for long.

  None of them paid any attention to the distant rumble above the clouds, they were too used to the sounds of aeroplanes to notice. None of them except Clement. His ears pricked up at the noise. It sounded like a large propeller driven aircraft. They were not in flight path for Kinshasa airport or Kampala in Uganda. The occasional aid flight flew past but they tended to land at the military bases in the west of the Congo. He signalled to one of the boys serving dinner and spoke quietly in his ear.

  “Go, take two climbers, one on the roof and one in the tree tops and watch the skies. Quickly now.” The boy nodded and darted out of the room, the tree they used as a look-out post was at the end of the courtyard, he shimmied up it, shouting at one of his friends to climb onto the roof of the house as he did so. The noise from the plane had died down, somewhere to the west. He looked up at the night sky, eyes absorbing every last scrap of light, straining to see. Nothing. The other lookout whistled, he was already on the roof of the building, hanging on to the chimneystack. He whistled again, pointing east. The boy in the tree focused on the direction he was pointing in. Against a cloud, for no more than a second, a sudden flicker, a change of tone. Then another. Two more. Could be a bird. Could be nothing. They remained in place, watching the sky, listening carefully.

  In his room at the top of the stairs, Jack also caught the sound of the plane. His body might be dehydrated, weak, recovering from exposure to the heat of the sun and Monsieur Blanc’s impromptu surgery, but he recognised it immediately. The distinctive drone of the RAF Hercules. The four prop driven engines. You don’t grow up on army bases without getting to know that sound. He listened, ears straining. It grew quieter then louder. Was it because of a change in wind direction or had the plane banked? Changed its course? He wasn’t sure, but could only think of one reason why it might suddenly turn, it had dropped its load, got rid of its cargo.

  He struggled to raise his head to hear better, but something cold poked at his chest. His eyes focused on it. A black tube, shiny, and at the other end of it a small boy. The gun was almost too heavy for him. His arms shook slightly under the weight. Jack lay back down. The pressure from the gun barrel eased. Was this a rescue mission for him? Somehow he doubted it.

  “Well Clement, I would like to thank you for your hospitality,” Monsieur Blanc said, getting up off the crate he had been seated on. “But I think I should check on the boy. Make sure he hasn’t come to. Or died.” He added as an afterthought.

  “Of course, but I want you back here for a game of black jack after. See if you can win any of that money I took from you last time.” Clement replied cheerfully.

  “I doubt that very much,” Monsieur Blanc said, downing the last of his bottle of beer. It had warmed up quickly in the heat of the dining room and tasted bitter and unpleasant.

  In the corridor, a gentle breeze from the open doorway cooled the beads of sweat on the back of his neck. He was thinking about Jack’s warning, about the way the device was implanted under the skin. There were questions that needed answers.

  He walked quickly up the marble staircase, the effort required to shift his weight in the humid air bringing a fresh dampness to his forehea
d. How he hated the jungle. Couldn’t wait to leave Clement’s god-forsaken hellhole and return to his palatial home in Paris or the chateau he owned near Poitiers. He earned his money, no doubt about it, and for the most part he enjoyed his work. But Clement’s false bonhomie grated, tried his patience. The man was a brute, clear and simple. Having to sit and eat his indigestible food and laugh at his jokes required more diplomacy than he possessed.

  He was about to enter Jack’s room when he heard something from the far end of the corridor. Sounded like a wounded animal. A soft whimpering. He walked along the landing, pulled at a heavy wooden door, half hanging off its hinges. For a moment he feared it might be locked, but it was just the resistance of warped wood. Clement didn’t lock the doors to his apartment, there was nothing worth stealing inside.

  The noise stopped as he soon as he opened the door. A sharp intake of breath from near the window. He could see a thin figure shaking in the corner of the room. A girl. Monsieur Blanc knew enough about Clement and his soldiers to understand the routine rape and kidnap of girls from nearby villages was part of their military strategy. An attempt to control what was left of the local population through brutality and fear.

  He stepped towards the girl. “It’s ok, it’s ok. Ça va ça va,” he spoke quietly, as reassuringly as he could. Both hands held up, palms facing outwards. The girl retreated as far as she could into the corner of the room. She was tied to the bed. What looked like an electrical cable cutting into the skin around her ankle. Without thinking he pulled out his pocketknife and cut through the plastic cord. An adult he would have left, an adult should be able to fend for themselves, but a child? He couldn’t leave her to Nbotou. The faces of the sisters at the Shanghai Mission were in his mind’s eye, judging his actions.