“Yes?” He said impatiently.
“Nick Clarke at the Ugandan Commission here.” At last, Sir Clive thought. About bloody time Denbigh sorted himself out and got in touch with HQ.
“I’m afraid it looks like a no-show from the mysterious visitor. I do have a name for you though.” Sir Clive was distracted, getting up off the sofa, rubbing his forehead, trying to wake up his sleep-starved brain.
“Well spit it out man.”
“It’s Jack, Jack Hartman.”
He breathed in sharply, his chest suddenly constricting. It was the closest Sir Clive had come to a panic attack. Alive. Jack Hartman had made it out alive. Shit. Fuck. How much did he know? He breathed deeply, one hand balling into a fist and thumping his chest, attempted to clear his throat several times.
“Sir Clive, are you ok? Sounds like there might be some interference on the line.” Nick’s voice a distant echo in his ear.
“Good, ok. I’m fine yes.” His father. Had to be with his father’s help. He’d heard nothing from the three spooks. Too much on his plate to put an alert out when they didn’t check in. The Grim bloody Reaper. He should have known.
Sir Clive’s breath came heavy down the line. Everything he had sought to hide, everything he’d worked to build now threatened to come crashing down about his ears because that man, that boy, had managed to weasel his way out of a situation that by all rights should have resulted in a lingering and painful death. Him and his bloody father.
“Sir Clive?” Nick said hesitantly.
“This is bad, Nick. This is very bad.” He said, his mind running over the options, thinking quickly. The rules of the game were changing, and he needed to stay on top.
“Did the refugee camp confirm he left with the aid trucks?”
“They did.”
“So it’s likely he’s in Kampala, or somewhere near?”
“Possibly.” Nick replied cautiously. It was equally likely he’d jumped off the bus half way to the city and was trekking through the bush.
“Good. I’m going to e-mail his picture, and that of an associate he’s likely to be travelling with,” Sir Clive added, his figures tapping away on his laptop, attaching photos of Jack and his father, waiting for a secure connection, then sending them through.
“I need you to check hotels, ask around, find out where they’re staying. Do not approach them. These people are dangerous. I can’t go into details but they need to be stopped. Call me when you find them.” He was about to replace the receiver when another thought occurred to him.
“The Refugee camp, I assume they have e-mail there don’t they?”
“Sure. As long as the satellites are overhead.”
Sir Clive rubbed his chin. Jack’s girlfriend, Amanda Marshall. The one he’d picked up from the hospital. If Jack only sent one e-mail it would have been to her, he was certain of it. What did she know? What had he told her? He said goodbye to Nick Clarke and punched in Harvey Newman’s number.
“Harvey. Sir Clive here. We might have ourselves a problem.”
71
Amanda Marshall had come close to losing her temper with almost all of the ragtag collection of patients that walked into A&E that night. From the ditzy parents who’d allowed their toddler to get a penny stuck up his nose, to the drunken student who’d ridden his bicycle into the river Cam and was now sitting in a pool of stagnant water. An uncomprehending expression on his face as he surveyed his crooked foot.
Her shift was almost over. It wasn’t her fault she was impatient to get away. Jack’s e-mail had left her in a constant state of anxiety. So much he hadn’t said. If that was to avoid worrying her it hadn’t worked. Two days since then and she hadn’t heard anything further. She headed to the staff changing room to wash up, change out of her scrubs. She worked the soap into a ferocious lather, rinsed her hands and forearms quickly, then changed into jeans and a thick fleece. Hair fixed in place, she headed outside, wrapping a scarf round her neck and pulling a beanie down over her ears. The wind that whipped off the fens was bitter at this time of year. She zipped up her anorak. The effect was bulky, hardly flattering but at 7 in the morning she wasn’t particularly concerned about her appearance.
The roads were quiet as she cycled back to Jesus Lane. The tiredness she usually felt was held at bay by the desire to check her e-mails, see if Jack had managed to send her another message. Hope for the best expect the worst, her mother had always said. She’d never understood what that meant. Amanda always expected the worst, too much experience with hospitals to dare to hope for the best.
Field Officer Michaels selected a skeleton key from the set in his pocket. Should open a standard Yale lock, as long as there wasn’t a Chub bolted across. The latch sprang back, he eased open the door, glancing quickly behind him to see if anyone was watching. Nobody about, Jesus Lane was deserted, just a traffic cone shoved on top of a phone booth and a couple of half-eaten kebabs strewn across the pavement.
He stepped into the hallway. Carpet underfoot. That was good. Keep it silent. Sir Clive had advised caution. If anyone caught sight of him he should run. Make it look like an interrupted burglary. He’d been told the target didn’t usually get home till half seven so he had twenty minutes. Just watch out for the flatmate.
Michaels crept up the stairs, wincing as one of them creaked under foot. Past the pile of books on the middle step, past the mountain bike on the landing. No noise in the house, nobody stirred. First floor, room facing the street. Fire up the laptop and copy the hard drive then get out. Leave no trace. He eased open the door. Curtains were open, bed unmade. Nobody had slept there that night. He strode over to the laptop and inserted a USB stick, checking his watch. It was going to be tight, but at least he had a view of the street from the window, and there was no other way of approaching the house.
Sir Clive was also watching the clock. Following his conversation with Nick Clarke he had wasted no time in contacting the field agent. He was what was known as a specialist. Not a nice man. The sort you used when you wanted results and weren’t too concerned about the consequences. The Officer had driven hell for leather from London to Cambridge. Got there in just over half an hour. God alone knew how many speed cameras he had set off along the way. One of the admin team would be kept busy for a week with the paper work. Sir Clive checked his watch one more time. Drummed his fingers on the table. Was he being too lenient, checking her computer before deciding what action to take? Going soft in his old age? Should he simply have told the field officer to make her disappear? His head told him that was the right thing to do, but his heart had hesitated. He had to have some proof, not simply a hunch. He had a daughter of a similar age, a student at Durham. Maybe that was clouding his judgement.
72
Amanda veered down the alley from King Street to Jesus Lane, feeling her mobile buzz insistently in her jean pocket. She dug her hand in, trying to wrench it out, caught under material tight on her thigh. Probably just the hospital calling her back to work, asking if she could manage another shift, but she had a duty to respond.
“Hello, Dr. Marshall speaking.”
“Amanda?” Jack’s voice thin, scratchy through the interference, but it was still Jack’s voice. She nearly fell off her bicycle.
“Jack! God it’s good to hear you. Where are you?” She pulled up, clambered off the bike, phone pressed between ear and shoulder.
“Kampala, Uganda, look I can’t talk for long. Flying back soon. A least I hope to.” “Fantastic. You can tell me all about your adventures when you get back.” An ominous silence. Amanda smart enough to understand those adventures might not be over.
“Listen, I need you to stay near other people, at least till I get back. Don’t go wandering off on your own. You get the slightest hint you’re being followed head to a public place with as many friends as you can gather together, ok?”
“Of course,” Amanda coul
dn’t help but glance speculatively behind her. The sudden sensation someone might be watching. No one there. Just a fox tugging at a rubbish bag.
“Look, I better go. I have to sort a few things here. Organise papers and tickets, that sort of thing.”
Amanda struggled to reply. She was choked. Tired from her shift, filled with conflicting emotions, relief, fear, worry someone might be watching her. The irrational and the rational bumping up against each other in her worn-out brain.
“Of course, I,” she hesitated, the tumble of emotions about to make her declare her feelings, say something she might regret. The cool-headed doctor asserted herself, took control of her tongue, “I really miss you Jack.” She said. Jack caught the hesitation, understood its meaning, the word miss bearing a heavy burden.
“I miss you too Mands,” he replied simply. Investing the word with the same meaning he had heard in her voice. “Really have to go now. But you’ll be ok, we’ll be ok, yeah? I’ll take you away when I get back. Somewhere nice. Somewhere we can relax,” he said.
“Ok.” Amanda replied simply.
There was a banging at the door of the hotel room, Archie appeared and slung a bag of shopping down on the bed.
“She ok?” He asked quickly.
“Think so. For now.”
“Good. Bloody hot out there.” He said, wiping his brow. “And not much choice of food in the market.” He pulled a couple of mangos out of the bag, sliced them quickly with his hunting knife and passed one to Jack.
“I’ve arranged for a Cessna to fly us to Burundi. Couple of hours in the air. There’s an airstrip outside of town. We’ll get a taxi there in an hour.”
73
Nick Clarke nodded at the doorman as he made his way out of the Sheraton hotel, dabbed his brow with a linen handkerchief. No luck so far. He’d tried all the upmarket places, they were grouped together round Nakasero Hill. Safety in numbers he supposed. Have to try the dives next, he thought grimly. Head to the market district. Time for an ice cold beer first? He glanced at his watch. Probably not. You could guarantee Sir Clive would phone him the minute he entered a bar.
He signalled a taxi, climbed in and wound down the window. Couldn’t even use the Commission’s official car and chauffeur. Too conspicuous. He’d just have to sweat it out like a plebe in a cab that smelt of tobacco and body odour. Hadn’t done this type of gumshoe intelligence work for years and frankly he felt it a little beneath him. Besides, what did Sir expect him to do if he found them? They need to stopped, he’d said. Sounded ominous.
The cab pulled up outside a cheap, but clean looking place on Gaba road. Two bedraggled palm trees had been planted optimistically either side of the entrance. He told the driver to wait, pushed his way through the people gathered round the market stalls outside and headed into the hotel. A large lady smiled at him from behind a small desk, a ledger open in front of her. No one else around. Nick Clarke did his best to smile back.
“Good morning, I’m looking for a couple of guests of the Commission. I think they might have booked into the wrong hotel.” He passed over the photos of Jack and his father. The woman looked carefully at the photos, then back at Mr. Clarke, took in his harassed features, his crumpled suit.
“They checked in this morning. Would you like to leave a message?” Nick Clarke’s heart leapt. Bingo.
“Actually I’d rather pass it on in person, if that’s ok. What room are they in?” He said with a self-conscious little bow. He had no intention of going into their room, he just didn’t want the receptionist telling Jack and Archie someone from the Commission had been looking for them. The receptionist looked him up and down, he looked sweaty and stressed with the slightly stooped posture that comes from sitting at a desk all day. She decided he probably was from the Commission.
“First floor, Room 3. On your left.”
“Thank you,” Nick replied, heading up the concrete staircase. There was a toilet at the end of the corridor. He walked swiftly towards it, ducked inside, pulled out his phone and called Sir Clive.
74
Field Officer Michaels peered out the window. An unnatural shadow cast at the end of the street. Something that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Inky black lines were creeping across the pavement, a half-finished spider’s web cast by the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Come on, he muttered to himself, the last of the files from the hard drive transferring to the USB stick. He needed to get away, plug the stick into his laptop and check through the data. Another glance out the window. Someone locking a bike to the railings, a tall slender figure. Stepping towards the house, key in lock. Shit. He said, come on, come on.
He pulled out the USB stick and shoved it into his pocket. Shut down the laptop. The sound of someone moving about downstairs. The rattle of keys dropped on a shelf. Lights clicking on and off. He stepped quickly out of the room and into the hallway. The figure heading up the stairs, floorboards creaking. Another door to his left. He opened it, quick as a flash, entered silently. Held his breath. The room was dark, sleeping figures on a bed in the corner of the room. They didn’t stir.
The footsteps passed by, a creak of hinges. He could hear movement in the bedroom where he had been standing moments before. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, not wasting a second, quick feet padding down the stairs. Three quick strides and he was out in the street, sprinting to his car.
Amanda took her phone out of her pocket and placed it on the desk next to her laptop, saved the number Jack had called her on to speed dial. The blue LED on the front of the computer was flashing. Strange. She was certain she had shut it down before she left to go to the hospital. She opened it up, the screen flickered to life, sunset over a Bali beach the backdrop, snapped during the summer holidays. Are you sure you want to shut down? There are files still open in another application. The gently patronising tone of Windows’s operating system. Maybe she hadn’t closed it down properly. She was about to select ‘no’ when a pop-up appeared at the bottom of the screen. Temporary storage device ejected.
Amanda felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She got up and turned off the light, then headed to the window. No one outside. Something at the far end of the street. A fleeting shadow, so quick she wasn’t sure what she had seen. Was her imagination playing tricks on her? She drew the curtains and turned on the lights. Desk lamp, bedside lamp. Inspected the room carefully. If someone had been there surely she would be able to tell? She was about to knock on her housemate’s door but something distracted her. A tapping sound, cold air from downstairs.
She peered over the banister. The front door, not closed properly, banging against the wooden frame. She ran downstairs and closed it, then back to her bedroom as quick as she could, door locked behind her, on the phone to Jack.
Field Officer Michaels was scanning through the data downloaded from Amanda’s computer. A key word search on the name Jack Hartman had brought up about 100 e-mails. Some between Jack and Amanda, others between her and her friends where he was mentioned by name. He filtered them by date, still nothing from the last few days. Then suddenly there it was. The message signed off from Uganda. Casual, almost off-hand in its affectionate tone. It was all he needed, thank goodness the girl hadn’t deleted it.
“Sir Clive, hi, Officer Michaels here.” He said into his Bluetooth headpiece.
“Michaels. What have you got?” Sir Clive asked. He sensed he was going to have to make a difficult decision.
“She’s in the know. He e-mailed her two days ago.” Michaels replied. No response from Sir Clive. Just a sigh.
“Very well. You know what you have to do.” Sir Clive said reluctantly. The fallout from the op was worse than he had thought, but there was no point tying himself in knots about it. Regret was something he intended to save for his retirement, along with a nice little nest egg to salve his conscience.
75
Jack and his father were gettin
g ready to leave when the call came through.
“For you,” Archie said, passing the phone to Jack. Amanda’s voice in his ear, she spoke quickly, short of breath, panicked.
“Jack, I don’t know if I’m imagining things or what, but just now the front door wasn’t closed properly and my laptop, I was sure I shut it down, but the light on the front was flashing,” she paused. “Now I’m saying it out loud it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
After what he had been through in the previous few days nothing sounded ridiculous to Jack. His father looked at him sharply. “What’s up?” He asked.
“Sounds like someone has been through Amanda’s stuff,” Jack said, hand over the mouthpiece.
“Tell her to grab her passport, throw some things in a bag and get as far away from there as she can.”
“Who’s with you Jack? I can hear someone in the background.” Amanda said.
“My dad. Long story. I’ll explain later. Grab your passport and throw some clothes in a bag. Let your housemate know you need to borrow her car. I want you to drive as fast as you can in whatever direction you feel like.”
“Ok.” Amanda said weakly, rooting about in a drawer for her passport, finding it amongst a pile of old phone bills, not knowing what her housemate would say when she announced she was borrowing her car. Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she drove as hard as she could away from there. She could hear the voice talking to Jack again in the background.
“Oh and Amanda, I don’t want you to worry, because you’re right and it probably is nothing, but just to be on the safe side leave through the kitchen window, head down the back alley onto King Street.”
Decoy Page 23
