Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  Big love

  J.

  He hadn’t bothered to delete the auto-signature at the bottom. The sign-off was from somebody called Marie Hoogstraff, Aid Co-ordinator, Red Cross, DRC, Africa. He must have used her e-mail account. Amanda sat down on the bed, got up, re-read the message, sat down again. DRC, Democratic Republic of Congo. No idea whether she should reply to it or not, how long he would even be there. Angry, relieved, elated, all at the same time. What was that about grandkids? She smiled to herself, printing off the message. There, she had it in writing. Something to make him think twice before he next decided to charge headlong into someone else’s war.

  65

  Camp 17, DRC

  Jack attempted to tackle the boy with the ball but he was too quick, darted round him, the other children laughing as he sprinted toward the goal and scored. He raised his hands above his head, clapping the goal. He wasn’t really in any condition to be running around chasing a football, but he was off the drip and had time to kill. A whole day before the arrival of the food trucks he could catch a lift with. And besides, they were nice kids. Despite what they might have seen, what they might have been through, they were still able to laugh, especially at the gangling blond-haired giant they ran rings around.

  “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” Dr. Murcia called out from the sidelines. Jack trotted over, a sheepish grin on his face.

  “Good to see them making the best of a bad situation,” he said, pointing at the kids. Dr.Murcia nodded, “how’s the infection, clearing up ok? You know if I thought it would make any difference whatsoever I’d tell you to take it easy. Get some rest.” Jack wasn’t listening, his eyes back on the game, “go on! Square it, SQUARE IT!” he shouted at his teammates.

  “Sorry doctor, you were saying?” Dr.Murcia shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly Spanish way.

  “No matter. Tomorrow the trucks come. We have arranged for you to be transported back to Kampala with them. And we’ve e-mailed the British High Commission. Told them to expect you.”

  “Good, good.” Jack said, eyes on the match, “go on! Foul. FOUL!”

  “They might require a bit more information from you than we do, Jack. Especially if you are carrying that Berretta of yours,” he said carefully. Jack’s mind went blank. The gun. The gun Monsieur Blanc had given him. He’d forgotten all about it, stuffed it in his belt. Hadn’t thought to look for it when he woke up. “Keep it,” he said, “not even mine, found it in the jungle.” The doctor nodded and didn’t ask further questions. He would have preferred it if Jack could be honest with him, if only to give him a clearer picture of events that had taken place in the region during the previous twenty-four hours.

  66

  British High Commission, Uganda

  Patrick Little, desk officer at the British High Commission in Kampala, paid scant attention to the e-mail messages that came in that morning. He was too busy trying to get the air conditioning working. It always packed up at this time of year, too much humidity. The local engineers sent to fix it were worse than useless, didn’t know one end of a spanner from the other. He’d sent them away before they damaged it irreparably.

  When he finally got round to checking messages later that afternoon, he only had time to cast a cursory glance over them. One from Refugee Camp 17. His eyes scanned it briefly, thoughts already turned to the chilled gin and tonic waiting for him in the bar at the Emin Pasha hotel, the preferred hang out for the city’s diplomats. A medical officer letting him know a UK citizen who’d visited the Camp would call in at the Commission tomorrow.

  Fine, he thought, about to fire off his reply. Another do-gooder that wanted to spend their summer holidays helping a charity. As long as he stood a round at the bar and didn’t give him an earful about the awful conditions in the camps, the government’s lack of intervention, all the usual holier-than-thou stuff and nonsense. He read on, “No papers. Lost tourist.”

  Now that was odd. Patrick Little ran a small chubby hand through the thinning grey hair that clung valiantly to the top of his head. There were no companies offering tours in the countryside around Camp 17. A few eco-tours to see the gorillas further south but nothing that far north. The area was too volatile. He picked up his phone and dialled Nick Clarke, Operations and Strategy manager, the not-so-secret MI6 officer attached to the embassy.

  “Nick. Hello, it’s Patrick.”

  “Patrick, what are you doing still at the office? You’re normally in the bar by half four.” He said jovially.

  “Fixing the aircon. Don’t worry, I’ll claim overtime. Listen, I’ve had a message through from Camp 17. Sounds like they’ve picked up a UK national wandering about in the jungle. Lost his papers so they’re sending him our way. Is he one of your lot? Any ops I should know about?”

  “Nothing I’m aware of.” Nick replied smoothly. “I’ll make a few calls, let you know. When’s he getting here?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Travelling with the aid trucks.” Nick chewed a pen, thinking that over. “Do me a favour will you, don’t let him leave without telling me. I’d like to have a chat.”

  “Will do.” Patrick replaced the receiver. He didn’t expect an honest answer from the old spook but he had to do his duty, had to report anything out of the ordinary. What Nick did with that information was nothing to do with him, as the Commissioner reminded him on numerous occasions.

  Nick got up from his desk, lighting a cigarette as he did so, ignoring the reminders taped to the walls that this was now a ‘no-smoking building’. As if the building itself would smoke. The pedant in him wanted cross the word ‘building’ out. Nick Clarke was a member of the old guard, public school then Sandhurst before drifting into the Foreign Office. Bad enough they tried to stop you smoking, worse still their bossiness was grammatically incorrect.

  A map on the far wall had the locations of the refugee camps, pin pricks in the surface. Thin pencil lines around them sketched out the last known movements of the militias. He took a heavy drag on his cigarette. Camp 17 was between General Nbotou and the Ugandan Liberation Army. Not a place for a holiday.

  He wondered if this had anything to do with the message he had received from London a few days earlier. Nothing significant, merely an indication there would be upcoming military manoeuvres in the area, training exercises. Which generally meant some sort of covert op. He poured himself a large whiskey from the cabinet by the window, dropped two cubes of ice into it, then checked through his saved messages.

  Notice of manoeuvres, north eastern DRC/Ugandan border, 2 -3 days. From Feb 19. It was from Charlotte Kavanagh. PA to Sir Clive Mortimer. Odd that Cyber Crimes were up to something in the region. Still, best to call it in. Let him know the High Commission was expecting someone. Most likely a soldier who’d parachuted into the wrong place. He picked up the phone, dialled London.

  “Good afternoon, Charlotte speaking,” the words were said quickly, as if Charlotte had more important things to be getting on with than speaking to whomever was on the phone.

  “Charlotte, hello. Nick Clarke calling from the Commission in Kampala. Wondered if I could have a word with Sir Clive?” His voice was gravelly, his tone full of the easy-going authority they bred into you at Harrow.

  “He’s in meetings all afternoon. External. Can I take a message?” Charlotte replied, her voice studiously indifferent.

  “Tell him it looks like one of the boys parachuted over DRC didn’t complete the . . . ” he paused, stubbing the cigarette out in the tacky shell ashtray on his desk, “didn’t complete the manoeuvres,” he gave the word due emphasis. “Looks like he’s heading to the High Commission. Will be here tomorrow am.” He put the phone down without giving any more information. Something told him Sir Clive would be on the line pretty quickly.

  67

  The journey in the aid trucks was cramped and uncomfortable, but it was the beginning of his journey home, back to Cambridge, back to Amanda. Jack wouldn’t have c
ared if it had been on a wooden cart over a cattle grid, as long as it got him back.

  One hundred and fifty miles, they had told him. And the going should be pretty good once they got out of the jungle. He’d be there early the next morning.

  “The British High Commission is expecting you,” Dr. Murcia had said as he bade him farewell. “May I suggest you think up a plausible story as to why you happen to be wandering round the jungle, that’s if you want them to send you home.” Jack had smiled as he shook his hand, thanked him for his help.

  “It’ll be fine.” He said, outwardly confident, inwardly wondering how the hell he was going to explain this to the staff at the Commission.

  They hadn’t been travelling long before the truck slowed, a shadowy figure in the road ahead waving his arm for them to stop. Jack sensed the driver tense, his knuckles gripping the wheel tightly.

  “What is it?” Jack asked. The driver shrugged, the man by the road was holding something white above his head, looked like a tee shirt on a stick.

  “Could be a hitch-hiker, could be someone about to highjack us,” he said. Jack wasn’t sure if the driver was joking. He stared at the figure, there was something familiar about the way he held himself, shoulders back, neck slightly stooped. The driver braked suddenly as the man ran into the middle of the road.

  “What the?!” He exclaimed. The hitchhiker sprinted to the side of truck, yanked open the door, shoved in his rucksack and climbed aboard.

  “Evening lad. They managed to fix you up alright then?”

  “Dad?” Jack was stunned. “This better not be another bloody hallucination.”

  Sir Clive was sitting stony faced in a meeting with external IT contractors when the call came. Charlotte relaying the message from the Ugandan High Commission. He excused himself and stepped away from the table, pressing the call back function.

  “Charlotte, put me through to the Commission in Kampala will you?” His said, his usual gruffness slightly mollified by the speed with which she had passed on the message. He heard the sound of fingertips pressing buttons.

  “Done,” she said. A ringing, long intermittent tones.

  “High Commission Kampala, Clarke speaking,”

  “Nick Clarke?” Sir Clive asked, not bothering to introduce himself.

  “Indeed.”

  “Excellent. Message came through you might have one of our boys turning up. Got a name and description?”

  “Not yet. Can’t get through to the camp and there’s no means of contacting him. Be here early tomorrow though.”

  “Good, good. Call me as soon as you’ve spoken to him,” Sir Clive said. Officer Denbigh. Had to be. Sounded like he’d managed to make it out after all. Should be able to get a full debriefing from the man.

  The idea that Jack Hartman, untrained and untested, might have stumbled through the waking nightmare Sir Clive and Centurion had unleashed on the Congo didn’t even occur to him.

  The empty aid trucks trundled through the night, making good progress on the deserted highway that connected the capital to the north west of Uganda. As they bumped over the potholes Jack told his father what he had learnt from Monsieur Blanc about Centurion, their need for coltan, and Sir Clive’s elaborate hoax to allow him to take out Clement Nbotou and secure the mines.

  His father had shaken his head. “Lions led by donkeys. What a waste of men.” His father said, then became silent, partly out of respect, and partly out of shock that a high-ranking member of the Security Services could display such wanton disregard for the lives of soldiers. And all for personal gain.

  “We need to decide what to do. We’re not going to the High Commission. They’ll have a tame spook there pretending to be a desk officer. A hotline to MI6, to Sir Clive.” He ran a hand through his mop of greying hair. “This is big, Jack. He’s a powerful man with a lot to lose.”

  They entered the city as dawn was breaking, the other two trucks peeling off the main road to head for the airport.

  “Change of plan driver,” his father said. “We aren’t going to the Commission just yet, I think it would be best if we freshen up first. Can you drop us in the centre of town, wherever the hotels are?”

  68

  Patrick Little checked the clock on the wall. Still no sign of the new arrival. He wasn’t overly concerned. There could be any number of setbacks on African roads, and the later the man arrived the better, as far as his hangover was concerned. He rubbed his eyes and dropped a couple of aspirin into a glass. It felt worse than usual, must have been something in the water the barman mixed with his whiskey.

  The phone on his desk sounded its loud and unpleasant tone. He jumped, spilling the fizzing liquid onto his laptop. He would really have to work out how to turn the damn thing down one of these days.

  “Patrick, it’s Nick Clarke here, how are you feeling this morning?”

  “Fine,” Patrick replied through gritted teeth.

  “Glad to hear it, hope the Foreign Office budget hasn’t had to be cut by too much on account of your bar bill.” Patrick ignored him and downed his drink. Sarcastic bastard. He had been there too, at least as far as he could remember.

  “Is this just a social call or did you have something you’d like to discuss?” He replied irritably.

  “I’ve had London on the line, senior officer at MI6. Twice already. Wants us to let him know the moment this chap arrives so he can debrief via videoconference. Might be worth putting a call in to the Refugee camp. Check they left on time. Check they’re on their way.”

  “Fine.” Patrick replied, putting down the phone. Not exactly a big ask. He fired up his laptop and sent off a quick e-mail.

  The reply came back almost straight away.

  Convoy left yesterday evening. Jack Hartman aboard. Arrival in Kampala confirmed this morning.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Nick.

  “Aid trucks are already in town old chap, but our friend Jack hasn’t checked in.”

  “Jack?” Nick repeated, quick as a flash. “That’s his name? You didn’t tell me he had a name.” That’s because I didn’t bloody know his name. Patrick thought to himself. Nick had an irritating habit of implying you’d deliberately withheld information, that he’d caught you out in some carefully planned deception. He checked the e-mail again.

  “It’s Hartman, Jack Hartman.”

  69

  Jack watched his father as he carefully took apart two automatic pistols, checked the action, wiped them down, then re-assembled them and dropped them onto the brightly-coloured bed spread. They’d found a mid-range hotel near the food market. Good crowd cover if they needed to make a run for it during the day and no need to hand over ID or a credit card when you checked in.

  “Not the most reliable of things, automatics, need a lot of looking after, especially in this type of environment.”

  “Right,” Jack said. His father was transformed, a million miles from the dressing gown–wearing half-drunk shadow of a man he had been only days earlier. There was a purpose to his movements, an efficiency. He passed one of the guns to Jack. “You remember how to fire it?”

  “Of course.” Jack replied, feeling the weight of it, the cold metal in his hands.

  Archie had explained about the tracker in the watch, how he’d followed him to the airport in Cambridge, flown to Burundi, hired a helicopter, picked up his trail through the jungle. Jack was impressed, he knew he shouldn’t have been, his father had spent years doing exactly that sort of thing, it was what he had trained for. He just never thought he would be explaining to him how he did it. Neither of them mentioned the hallucinations, the vision of Paul. Didn’t need to. It was understood.

  Jack walked over to the sink in the corner of the room, looked at his face in the mirror before splashing himself with lukewarm water. The beard was getting seriously out of hand.

  “So what now? I
have no passport and they’ll be some kind of alert out for you, won’t there?”

  Archie thought back to the three spooks he’d dispatched, their bodies left uncovered in the warehouse. There most certainly would.

  “Burundi. We’re going to Burundi,” his father replied, punching numbers into a sat phone. “I have a contact there, man called Spike Van de Weye. He can sort out passports, papers, anything we need.” He flicked a business card at Jack, listening to the dial tone.

  “That’s his address. The bar he works at. Memorise it then flush it down the bog. Just in case.”

  “In case what?” Jack asked, but his father turned away, didn’t answer.

  “Spike you old bastard, it’s Archie.” Jack looked briefly at the card then shredded it. He listened as his father rattled off instructions to whoever ‘Spike’ was, then lay down on the bed, stretching his limbs. One of the springs in the soggy mattress gave way. Sleep. He could sleep for days, even in this dive of a hotel. His father’s presence was reassuring in a way it had never been while he was growing up.

  “Did you e-mail or call anyone from the camp?” Archie asked, interrupting the dozy thoughts that were beginning to fog his brain.

  “Just Mands, my girlfriend.” He was about to tell his dad how great she was when he caught his father’s tense expression.

  “Call her. Now. Check she’s ok.”

  70

  Sir Clive sat up quickly. It was still dark outside. His office smelt stale and musty. Or maybe it was just him. Six-thirty am shone in lurid electric green letters on his desk-top clock. Dozing on the sofa was never a good idea. Left him extremely irritable and unrested. It took a few moments for the ringing sound to filter through his brain. He grabbed the receiver.