“I assure you it is simply so that you do not know the finer points of how we intend to deal with Sir Clive. Trust me, if anything goes wrong, the less you know the better.” Amanda looked for support from Jack but he’d simply shrugged.
“I guess he’s right,” he’d said, “if this goes wrong I don’t want any of it coming back on you.”
Monsieur Blanc closed the door behind her, glanced at his watch. “Sir Clive will send some people to observe the location, probably be there in three hours if they use a helicopter. You’ll need to be in place as soon as possible.” He paused, looking at Jack closely.
“You are sure you want to go through with this?” He asked.
“He killed my father. He wants to kill Amanda.” Jack replied simply. A hatred borne of cold logic, not passion. “What choice do I have?” Monsieur Blanc nodded. It wasn’t a question.
“Fine,” he said, opening up a map of Paris and spreading it over his desk. “These are the key vantage points they are likely to occupy outside the cemetery. The best places from which to observe the phone booth. You’ll need to work out a discreet route between them, moving as quickly as possible. Take out each operative before the others realise what’s going on. May I suggest you use darts rather than bullets? I have a modified gun that fires just the right dose of hydrogen cyanide. You can even attach a scope. And I have something special you might like to use on Sir Clive.” Jack raised his eyebrows.
“Sounds lethal,” he said. Monsieur Blanc nodded.
“Oh it most certainly is, which is another reason why I suggested Amanda leave the room. In my experience doctors show a remarkable reluctance to end human life.”
“Mmm,” Jack mumbled noncommittally, eyes on the map, memorising the layout of the roads around the cemetery. He’d decide what to tell her later.
“Now, let me show you something,” Monsieur Blanc said, stepping theatrically away from the desk and sliding back one of the white wall panels. It opened to reveal a heavy-looking cast iron door, the sort you’d find on a bank vault.
“This house was built by a Monsieur Guillancourt. One of the most respected financiers in 18th century France. He had the safe constructed during the revolution. Didn’t want any of the paysans getting their hands on his possessions. I’ve modified it slightly,” he said as he entered a code into a keypad on the front, waiting for it to open with the enthusiastic impatience of a child outside a toy store.
“This is where I keep my wares,” he said proudly, gesturing to the rows of high tech weaponry gleaming against the velvet-lined walls.
Field Officer Michaels and the rest of his crew sat stoney-faced in the Lynx helicopter, the noise of the blades made conversation nigh on impossible. He was concerned with their lack of preparation time. Despite Sir Clive’s assurances they were dealing with an amateur he still liked to have a solid knowledge of the geography of the zone he was working in. He didn’t know Paris well. Maps and building plans were no substitute for face time at the location. Sir Clive had told them to use knives, don’t go shooting the boy or his girlfriend, it had to look like a robbery gone wrong. A panicked lunge from a gutter-crawling low life that happened to catch an artery, not a pre-meditated murder.
Michaels didn’t like knives. Too messy. And you had to be close. Two of the team would need to hold the boy down whilst he put a blade to his neck. Give him a silenced Walther P99 any day.
He checked the map of the cemetery. It was in a run-down part of the city, a popular tourist attraction during the day but deserted at night. Sir Clive’s brief involved the killing of two British citizens on French soil, there was no room for error.
“What are you thinking?” Sir Clive asked, raising his voice above the roar of the helicopter blades. Michaels shrugged.
“The sooner we get to the location the better,” he shouted back. “I want to have time to get the team in position.”
86
Jack cast a wary glance along the boulevard. He was seated in a hired car with a clear view of the street, discarded sandwich wrappers and crisp packets on the seat next to him. The first part of the plan, position yourself so you’re clearly visible, let them know where you are. If they can see you they’ll think they’re in control, that they have the upper hand. Make them less cautious.
The boulevard was busy, a long queue of tourists outside the cemetery, even at this time of day. A steady of stream of Parisians going into the boulangerie on the corner, emerging with baguettes under their arm. Must be a decent baker, Jack thought hungrily, wishing he had nothing to worry about other than buying bread for an evening meal.
He checked the bus time table open on his lap. The number forty-three was due to pull up at quarter to, as it did every hour. So far the service had been pretty regular. He needed it to be on time tonight. It would give him the cover he needed. Until then the plan was to remain in position, exit the car every hour or so and furtively look up and down the street, acting out the role of amateur spy. He’d bought a cap and hooded top but shaved off the beard, under his hat his hair was dyed dark brown. An obvious attempt to disguise himself, clothes that served to draw attention to him, made him look as if he didn’t want to be recognised. All part of the plan.
He kept his eyes on the street, watching for the faces that didn’t change. The people who lingered a little too long over their coffee, who seemed to take an unnatural amount of interest in the newspaper they were reading. Anything out of the ordinary.
He was pretty sure he’d identified two of them. One sat in a car on a side road that had a direct view of the phone booth. He’d seen him when he went to the café. A youngish man in jeans and tee-shirt texting in the driver’s seat. Still there when Jack went to the café an hour later. No one spent that long sending a text.
“Seen any others?” Amanda’s voice from the foot well on the passenger side, her body curled into a tight ball, covered from view by a loose blanket.
Jack put a hand over his mouth before he replied. Didn’t want to give any indication there was someone else in the car, especially not someone dressed in exactly the same clothes as he was, hood pulled low over her face, peak of the cap poking out from under it.
“Man in the queue for the cemetery. Whenever he gets close to the front he excuses himself and crosses the street. Disappears into a shop then rejoins the back of the queue.”
He moved his hand away from his mouth, careful not to look down. Amanda was baring up well, her long slender limbs curled into an uncomfortable ball in the tiny space.
Sir Clive was drinking coffee in a hotel room at the far end of the street, field officer Michaels with him. They were in radio contact with the three agents on the ground. So far everything was going to plan. They’d identified the target, confirmed he looked jumpy. Busy road. Central Paris boulevard. No chance of slipping discretely into the back seat and killing the boy, not if they wanted this to look like a mugging gone wrong. Best to sit it out.
Amanda tried to stretch her legs as best she could in the tiny space. They were beginning to cramp. The minutes ticked by with interminable slowness. Past eleven pm now, the street almost empty. A few stragglers at the café.
“Can you still see them?” She asked quietly.
“Two in doorway either side of the baker. Other two in the car. No sign of Sir Clive.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” She asked, her voice nervous. Jack didn’t reply. This wasn’t a question of what he wanted, it was a question of what needed to be done. He checked his watch. Each second taking an age to tick by. How did people make a career of this? If the enemy didn’t kill you the boredom would.
“I’m going on one last trip to the tabac across the road.” He said eventually. “Let them see me, remind them what I’m wearing.”
The MI6 officers watched the dark figure climb out the car, run quickly across the street and into the shop, shoulders hunched, cap pulled low over his eyes
. He emerged a few moments later with a pack of chewing gum and a bottle of water.
“Ready?” He said under his breath to Amanda as he opened the car door. “The bus is approaching.” He pulled the door shut, checked his rear view mirror, bright lights heading towards them. He loosened his belt, working his trousers down to his ankles, another pair underneath, pale-coloured. Now the black hooded jacket, discretely unzipped. The bus was almost on them.
“Three, two, one . . . ” A hiss of airbrakes. The bus alongside, blocking them from view, doors opening, passengers getting out. Amanda clambered up quickly from the foot well, hands on the steering wheel, yanking herself up, muscles screaming in pain at the sudden movement into the driver’s seat, same clothes as Jack had been wearing, an extra jumper to bulk out the hooded top, cushion under the seat. Her hair tucked up into the cap, face hidden by shadow. The changeover, exactly as they’d practised. Jack slipped out stealthily in the same movement, closing the door quietly behind him. The bus pulled away.
The MI6 officers kept their eyes on the car. The figure behind the wheel. They paid little attention to the passengers that got off the bus, to the tall dark-haired figure in a light-coloured business suit, briefcase swinging by his side, crossing the street towards them. They heard him though, heard the cheerful whistle, the Marseillaise of all things, and the shoes click-clacking on the pavement. Did their best to ignore it. Eyes on the man in the car. Only 10 minutes till the meeting. Midnight by the phone booth. This looked like it might turn out to be straightforward, a clean kill. The moment the boy approached Sir Clive they’d take him out.
Jack yanked the gun from the tape that held it to the side of the briefcase. The weapon was bulky and awkward. Modified to fit the darts. He didn’t slow his pace, fired two silenced shots into the first doorway, kept moving, aware of the dark figure that slumped backwards. Two more shots into the second doorway. Same result. This time he caught a sharp intake of breath from the victim. The paralysing effects of the serum. As lethal and effective as Monsieur Blanc had claimed. He turned the corner, walked towards the parked car, kept his pace constant. Just as he’d suspected. Two figures inside. He walked past without glancing in, same rhythm to his echoing footsteps, same whistle, down the street and into an alley.
Sir Clive walked cautiously towards the phone booth, glancing at his watch. One minute to midnight. No word from the two officers on the street but the men in the car confirmed he could proceed as planned. He could see the parked Renault that contained Jack Hartman. The hooded figure hunched over the wheel. He pulled at the stiff plate-glass door, it protested with a noisy screech, stepped into the phone booth.
“In position and waiting,” he said under his breath, trusting the mic taped to his neck would pick it up.
“We have you covered. Once the boy leaves the car we’ll be on him.”
Jack peered over the rear passenger window of the MI6 Officers’ car, watching the two shadowy forms seated inside, one of them speaking into a walkie-talkie. It was them, no doubt about it. He’d crept back silently in his socks, heart thumping louder than the soft pad of his feet on the pavement. Crouched low, he placed one hand on the door handle, the other on the gun. If it was locked he’d have to smash the glass, if not two shots per passenger. Only one needed, the second to be sure. His hand pushed gently upwards, expecting resistance. None came, the latch released, door opening. Poor fools, they really weren’t expecting the battle to come to them. Jack fired, emptying the gun. Body shot and a leg shot for each officer, just in case they’d decided to put on body armour. He stepped away from the car. All over in a couple of seconds, at least for them. One hand on his phone, dialling the number of the booth across the street, walking cautiously back towards the boulevard.
87
The electronic ring of the phone was loud in the booth, Sir Clive almost jumped, then cursed himself for doing so. He picked up the receiver.
“There’s a mobile taped to the booth. Un-tape it and climb over the cemetery wall. Wait for my instructions on the other side. If I see anyone follow you it’s off.” The line went dead. Unmistakably Jack. Sir Clive felt a flush of anger. The impudent little shit, thinking he could order him about. He looked back down the street towards the parked car. The hooded figure still visible behind the steering wheel. Just you wait Jack, he thought, you won’t know what’s hit you, the minute you step out that car…
The figure in the car remained still, unmoving. Stalemate. Sir Clive decided he’d make a show of climbing over the wall. Anything to get the boy into the open. He reached under the phone and yanked the mobile from it, pushed open the glass doors and walked towards the wall. There were a couple of places he could get a foothold. He pulled himself up and over awkwardly.
Jack watched him from across the street, once he’d disappeared over the wall he called the mobile.
“Follow the central path for 100m, until you reach the grave of Monsieur Guillotine. I’ll meet you there.” He said quickly, cutting Sir Clive off before he could begin an angry tirade. Jack wondered idly if he would understand the significance of the location, Monsieur Guillotine’s grave, the inventor of the guillotine, a brutally efficient execution method.
He climbed smoothly over the wall, dropped noiselessly to the ground. The bulky silhouette of Sir Clive was moving quickly along flag-stoned path ahead of him. He stood still, watching him for a moment, shoulders hunched against the cold night air, breath coming in thick wheezy rasps. The man was vulnerable, his team dispatched. For one unsettling moment Jack felt the urge to let him be, to walk away. Then the memory of his father, killed without so much as a second thought. Anger within him. He ran silently towards Sir Clive.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. Sir Clive stood still, wondering how long it would be before Michaels and his team vaulted over the wall. Jack approached cautiously, pressed his gun into the thick cashmere of Sir Clive’s coat.
“Slowly, very slowly, take out your gun and place it on the ground behind you,” Sir Clive snorted. Michaels really was testing his patience with this one. Reluctantly he withdrew his revolver from the shoulder holster and dropped it on the ground. Jack stepped forward and picked it up, lobbed it into the darkness. It landed with a clatter.
“What do you want Jack? What’ve you got on me?” He asked as he turned to face him, his expression full of contempt. Jack stepped back.
“You’re playing with the professionals now boy. Better be sure of yourself.” Jack didn’t respond. Sir Clive looked over his shoulder.
“You don’t seriously think I came here without back-up do you?” He said.
Jack was silent, face half-obscured in the shadows, still as the statues that looked over the graves.
“Fool,” Sir Clive muttered under his breath, shaking his head, waiting impatiently for the swift and brutal cut Michaels would deliver to the boy. It didn’t come. Jack remained upright, unmoved. His silence unnerving.
“Do you think your team got lost?” Jack asked at last, his voice quiet, contained. The night air was cold, close to freezing, his words carried on a misty cloud. Sir Clive cleared his throat, a touch of nervousness in the way he shifted his weight.
“Target in clear view, over, target in clear view.” He said as loud as he could. No one responded.
“Looks like they can’t hear you, Sir Clive. Either that or they just don’t care. Maybe MI6 doesn’t pay enough?” He added innocently. Sir Clive caught the tacit reference to the money he received from Centurion. His steely confidence wavered.
“What do you want Jack?” He asked again, his voice less certain.
“Not much, Sir Clive, not much. Just for you to leave us alone. Me and Amanda.” Jack replied.
“In exchange for the files, whatever evidence it is you think you have?”
“Exactly.” Jack said, extracting the memory stick from his pocket, holding it up for Sir Clive to see. He nodded, glancing ove
r Jack’s shoulder.
“That’s all?” he said.
“That’s all.”
“Ok, Jack, ok. We can do that.” Sir Clive said, as if making a generous concession. He could barely believe his luck. He’d been expecting the boy to come up with all sorts of ridiculous demands, attempt to blackmail him, threaten to expose him.
“I have your word?” Jack said, stepping forwards, looking him in the eye. Sir Clive nodded, holding his gaze. The chap seemed to want some reassurance. He was perfectly happy to provide it. Trusting fool.
“You have my word,” he replied in his most sincere tone. Jack passed him the memory stick. For one brief moment their hands touched. Cold skin in the night air.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully.
“Not at all. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your father. Not my decision. Our American cousins I’m afraid,” Sir Clive lied smoothly, his voice reassuring, slipping the memory stick into his pocket. He watched as Jack turned and walked away. Couldn’t believe his luck. He was wrong about needing a full team on this one, he could take care of the boy himself.
Sir Clive reached into his jacket and quietly pulled out his automatic pistol. The undersized weapon that fit neatly behind his wallet. Two quick shots to take out the boy, then he’d trace the girl. The loose ends. He raised the gun, Jack Hartman within his sights. Something distracted him. A hissing sound. The scent of almonds. Air around him suddenly misty. He felt his chest constricting, tried to speak but couldn’t. Bright pin pricks of light dancing before his eyes, flickering round the impassive stone features of Monsieur Guillotine. The last thing he saw before the blackness swallowed him.
Jack quickened his pace, started to jog towards the cemetery gates. A quick glance over his shoulder. Monsieur Blanc’s reputation for supplying highly efficient and lethal weaponry was well-founded, the canister of quick-release hydrogen cyanide in the memory stick casing had proved as effective as he claimed. Set the timer, twist the top and get yourself as far away as you can.
Decoy Page 26
