Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  He was surprised by the forcefulness of his father’s reaction. The intensity of the expression on his face. More than that, he was surprised at how easily the bumbling, alcohol-soaked persona had fallen away.

  Jack frowned, “that’s it?” he said. “I haven’t even explained what this is all about . . . ” His dad held up his hand, placed a finger over his lips.

  “You don’t have to. You’ve told me enough. The people who’ve asked you to do this are sending you in blind, either because they don’t want you to know who you’re dealing with, or because they don’t actually know. You asked for my advice so I’m telling you. Don’t work on those terms. One thing you learn pretty quick in the army, never work with lying bastards or idiots. Both are liable to get you killed.”

  Jack bit his lip and looked away. Were things really that simple? His dad had made a career out of giving up and walking away, why should he expect anything different in the advice he offered?

  “Look,” his dad said. “You’re not convinced. I’m not going to try and persuade you and I’m not going to ask you why you’re doing this, or how you got into it. But I will say this, if you’re going to go through with it, keep your eyes and ears wide open. Whatever is said, assume the opposite could also apply, whatever they ask you to do, make sure you have your own exit strategy. Where is this going to happen, UK or overseas?”

  “UK. Tomorrow evening.”

  “Where?”

  “Cambridge, not sure yet.”

  “Want me there?” Jack raised his eyebrows, thrown off balance. “No, don’t think so. Should be fine.” He said at last. His dad looked unconvinced.

  “What kind of kit are they giving you?”

  “I don’t know, nothing. There’ll be other people there.” He said weakly. His dad shook his head.

  “This stinks Jack. You know more about it than I do but to me it stinks.” He scratched at his tangle of grey hair, “let me just say this, whatever you’ve got yourself caught up in, you need to decide where your priorities lie. Don’t step up to a challenge for the sake of it, to see if you can dodge bullets, don’t do it unless you know exactly what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  Jack nodded. For a man on his third beer of the morning who looked like he’d selected his clothes by running at his neighbour’s washing line with his arms outstretched, his father made a certain amount of sense.

  “Thanks, I’ll think on it,” he said and got up slowly, nodding; his dad waved him away.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, reaching for another swig of beer. “Oh, one more thing Jack, before you go.” Jack turned to face him, he had opened the cupboard and was ferreting about, pulling clothes from the shelves and letting them land in an untidy pile on the floor.

  “Here it is, knew I’d put it somewhere safe,” he said at last, handing Jack a battered Omega diver’s watch, the face scratched, the metal strap scuffed. Jack looked at it uncertainly.

  “My birthday’s in May dad, and there’s really no need.”

  “It’s not for your birthday, it’s for luck,” his father said, eyes gleaming with something stronger than booze, hands pulling at Jack’s wrist, undoing the strap of his cheap Casio, yanking it off, adjusting the Omega and fastening it in place. Jack winced, surprised at the strength that flowed from his father’s hands, unnerved by the intensity of his expression.

  “Promise me you won’t take it off,” he said. Jack could feel his wrist beginning to go numb, his father’s grip tightening.

  “Promise me.”

  “Alright, alright.” Jack said at last. Archie released his grip, and smiled into the distance as Jack rubbed his arm, tried to get the blood flowing again.

  “That chunk of metal has seen more action than most soldiers manage in an entire career,” he said proudly. “Think of it as a talisman. Like the ring they have to protect in that Harry Potter film.” Jack couldn’t help but smile, no point in correcting him.

  “Whatever, dad.”

  Archie watched through the window as Jack headed down the road, away from the house. He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to leave the safety of his son to the spooks in MI6. He knew from bitter experience half of them couldn’t even shoot straight. Had a bullet lodged in his shoulder that still gave him the occasional pain from an op against the IRA he’d worked on with them in the 80s.

  He reached into the cupboard he’d taken the watch from, pulled out a small leather briefcase, opened it up, flicked up the screen and waited for the signal. It was an old piece of kit, a relic from the cold war. He’d swiped it from a warehouse as a souvenir before he was discharged, played around with it, changed the battery, made a few alterations. It worked ok but wouldn’t have a range of more than a couple of hundred miles. No, he wasn’t leaving Jack in the hands of MI6. He’d follow him, but at a discreet distance. He wasn’t going to lose a second son.

  21

  Monsieur Blanc sat at his corner table in the Wolseley. The restaurant was reputed to serve the best breakfast in London. So far he had sampled a glutinous, salty, mixture which tasted like oat-based wallpaper paste and a plate of spiced sausage, which he preferred. He was about to tuck into Eggs Benedict when he noticed a nervous looking creature making her way hesitantly past the army of waiters, uncomfortable in these plush surroundings.

  By contrast Monsieur Blanc felt perfectly at home in the high-ceilinged room, with its wood-panelled walls and black and white marble floor was similar to the atrium at his chateau in the south of France.

  “Bonjour ma très Chère,” he said, standing up to greet her, offering his most sincere smile. She nodded, casting a quick glance about her, appearing to all intents and purposes thoroughly embarrassed. Mary Dalkeith was not trained as a field operative and had no natural instinct for deception, which was why Sir Clive thought she would be perfect to leak information to Monsieur Blanc. Her awkwardness would be taken for fear, her discomfort for guilt.

  “I don’t like meeting in person. It’s a stupid risk.” She announced haughtily, looking furtively about. Monsieur Blanc watched her closely. Her nerves seemed genuine, he had asked her to meet him precisely because he wanted to observe her in person. He had acted on the information she provided on two occasions, first the raid on the lab and second the attempt to snatch the boy from the streets. Both times something had gone wrong. He didn’t like it when things went wrong, it started to make him uneasy, suspicious.

  “I am sorry, I do appreciate the risks you are taking, but from what you intimated on the phone I thought it best if we met somewhere neutral, somewhere public.” He noted she hadn’t taken her coat off. Either she was what she said she was, a computer programmer who happened to write code for MI6, barely seeing the light of day in the basement, or she was an exceptional actress. He took in her appearance, the bright blue eyes, the unfashionably cut grey hair, the heavy tweed skirt and dull brown jumper. No make-up and no earrings. A rather dowdy figure. He took an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  “What are you going to do with all this money?” He asked innocently. It wasn’t a great deal of money at all, but he imagined it would be to a low ranking civil servant. Mary looked embarrassed. Sir Clive had prepped her on how to respond. Simply answer truthfully, say what you would spend the money on.

  “There’s a cat rescue centre near my house. They’re in desperate need. The amount of maltreated animals in there,” she shuddered. “You’d be horrified at the way some people treat their pets.”

  Monsieur Blanc nodded, he had tried cat once but found the meat stringy and unpleasantly flavoured. He had long since ceased to be surprised by Westerners’ sentimentality when it came to animals. He suspected someone like Mary Dalkeith would have let him starve as a child so that the mangy neighbourhood cats could be fed.

  “If you don’t mind, I do rather need to be getting in to the office. I’m usually at my desk by 8 and if I’m even a little late they might start asking q
uestions.” He nodded.

  “Of course. You said you had further news of the final device. How we could locate it.” Mary leant across the table towards him, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “MI6 has been tracing him. He went to the hospital yesterday. Addenbrookes. They released him this morning. As far we know the device is still inside him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Back in Cambridge, at his rooms in College.”

  “Why hasn’t MI6 taken him in?”

  “They’re hoping,” another furtive look around her, “they’re hoping he’ll lead them to you. If they just keep watching.”

  Monsieur Blanc nodded, it sounded plausible, but it meant he would have to be very careful when he next made a move on the boy. He couldn’t risk exposing his position, nor could he risk drawing any attention to the people he was working for.

  “Thank you, most helpful. You may go now.” He waved her away.

  Mary stood up, affronted by the dismissive gesture, stuffing the envelope into her handbag. She bumped into the customer sitting at the chair behind her, making a rather flustered departure. Monsieur Blanc watched her carefully before turning his attention back to the Eggs Benedict. A grey cat hair in the hollandaise sauce. A gift from Ms. Dalkeith. He pushed the plate away in disgust.

  22

  Centurion Offices, L.A.

  Harvey checked his watch. Ten to seven. He liked to get to the office early, even if all he had to look forward to was a succession of dull strategy meetings. Still, he could go to Lazy Joe’s for lunch, one of the few places in L.A where they knew how to cook a decent steak. Every cloud had a silver lining, he thought. All he needed now was some good news from Monsieur Blanc.

  The reminder that one part of his plan was still unresolved made him grip the wheel tightly, his frustration at having to depend on someone else turning his driving aggressive.

  He parked the large SUV expertly in his space outside the main office and nodded at the security guard on his way in.

  “Any messages for me?” He asked his receptionist, a sultry Latina called Carla with a taste for designer shoes he was sure she couldn’t afford. Not on the salary he was paying her. He made a mental note to get one of his team run a check on her back accounts, make sure there weren’t any unexplained payments. The last thing he needed was a member of staff selling secrets to fund her shopping habit.

  “Good morning, Mr. Newman. Just your wife, reminding you there’s a charity dinner at the Golf Club tonight,” she replied in her soft Hispanic tones, full sunbeam of a smile tilted in his direction.

  “How could I forget that, an evening spent shaking hands with some of the most boring people in L.A.” He replied sardonically, his mood softening as he caught a discreet glimpse of the deep crevice between her tanned cleavage, the outline of a lacy bra just visible through the low-cut white blouse. Now that was a welcoming sight in the morning. Maybe he was being too suspicious and the shoes were just fakes, like the tits. The sort of thing his wife could spot a mile off, not that he would ever allow them to meet.

  “Hey Harve,” Bob Lowenstein, his second in command and the head of Centurion Systems, their technology division, said as he walked through the door. A tall man with a rangy build. Limbs long enough to ensure he was always picked for the basketball team in his youth, bit of a stoop now he was middle-aged. He had deep-set blue-grey eyes and a habit of squinting into the distance, like an old-style frontiersman checking the horizon for rain clouds.

  “Got some test results to take you through before the meeting,” he said in his considered Southern drawl, deep and slow, always careful with his choice of words.

  Harvey nodded grimly and gestured for him to go through to his office. He was glad he had other people to deal with the finer points of detail, particularly in relation to the new weapons technology they were developing. It was a world removed from the tools he’d used in his early years of soldiering, the M16s and fixed blade Buck Hunter knives. But it was where the big money lay, the government contracts. He called back over his shoulder, “Couple of coffees please, Carla,” then turned back to Bob, “what you got for me?”

  Bob Lowenstein unzipped his laptop from the black carry case and set down the papers he was holding.

  “No more progress without new supplies of coltan I’m afraid. And we need a hell of a lot. Can’t complete the circuits without it and until then the project’s pretty much stalled.” Harvey nodded grimly, the conflict in the Congo had taken them by surprise and was disrupting supplies of the rare metal.

  “The other elements are all but ready. Prototype is up and running. I’ve got some footage to show you.” He flicked quickly though the files on his laptop, bringing up a video.

  “Here,” Bob pointed at the screen. Harvey couldn’t see much, but it looked like a deserted L.A street in a run-down neighbourhood, the neon flicker of a drugstore casting a jagged shadow across the sidewalk, the only indication it was continuous footage and not a single photograph.

  “Help me out here Bob, what am I looking for?” Harvey said, not a patient man even at the best of times.

  “The doorway, over by the warehouse.” Bob gestured toward the left of the screen. Harvey looked but couldn’t see anything. Just a dull grey bundle of blankets in a dark doorway. They moved slightly, a pale face appearing above them, dark shadows where the eyes should be. The sound of a voice whispering into a mic, PEP test, level 5, subject in range, 200 metres, preparing to engage.

  A series of clicks, then a low hum and a whooshing sound. The bundle of blankets leapt upwards, a skinny figure visible, pale and ghostly, his ragged clothes hanging off him as he danced manically, feet on hot coals. A cry of pain distorted the sound recording, even at a distance of 200 metres. Gradually his movements becoming more controlled. The bizarre dance slowing down. Moving towards target, preparing to engage at 50 metres. The voice said through a fizz of static.

  “That was 200 metres at level 2?” Harvey asked, admiration in his voice. “Gave him quite a shock.”

  “That’s nothing. Wait till you see this.” Bob replied. Target engaged, decreasing intensity to level 6. The voice on the recording continued, camera moving slowly towards the subject. The dull thud of rubber-soled boots on the sidewalk. Harvey could see the fear in the target’s face, he’d caught sight of what was approaching him, head twisting from side to side, lank white-boy dreads swinging with each movement like the tendrils of a jungle vine. Nah man, give it up man. Whatever it was I didn’t do it, I didn’t do shit, his voice was distant, pleading and pathetic. He dug deep in his pockets and threw a handful of scrunched up dollar bills towards the camera, s’all I got, s’all I got man, just take it. The voice choked by fear. Engaging target. The last words the man heard.

  Clicks. The low humming sound, then the whoosh. His face, his hands, a bright crimson blister, searing white, a light too bright for the camera. A blank screen.

  “Shit,” said Harvey, shaking his head. “Lethal that close, even when you reduce the intensity. What time’s the meeting with the Secretary of State?”

  “9am, couple of hours time.”

  “ We sure as fuck aren’t showing her this. You got the footage of tests you ran on the pigs and goats?”

  “Already loaded into the system,” Bob replied, tapping the laptop. “Good work, we need to show them something, the amount of time it’s taking to fulfil the order. What did you do with the body?”

  “Nothing,” Bob replied, “left it where it lay. Just like the other times. That was one of Mr. Clive’s more inspired suggestions, testing out new technology on low-lives and junkies.”

  “It’s Sir Clive to you, Bob” Harvey replied, imitating the man’s plummy English tones. “Remember that time we forget to introduce him properly to the ambassador? Man, does he have a stick up his ass.” Bob allowed himself a smile, a rare thing.

  “He’s coming on line at 8, before the meeting. We’l
l have him linked up via secure satellite connection. In glorious technicolour.” He added dryly. Harvey nodded. Sir Clive was a valuable addition to the board, with political connections and access to intelligence even Centurion found hard to come by. He was expensive, but so far worth it. As long as his plan to secure the coltan mines in the Congo worked out.

  23

  Jack looked out of the train window, one London suburb merging into the next. His father’s words playing over and over in his head. A scratched record. This stinks Jack . . . you need to decide where your priorities lie. He’d gone against that, decided to go back to Sir Clive, allow MI6 to stitch the phoney device back into his abdomen. The numbness from the local anaesthetic was beginning to tingle at the edges, but they’d assured him it would last long enough to mean he felt no pain when it was cut out again.

  “Don’t worry Jack, we’ll be with you every step of the way,” Sir Clive had said, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder, an expression close to pride in his eyes. The boy had stepped up to the mark, risen to the challenge. Sir Clive was surprised. He was also very relieved.

  “I can’t promise you’ll come to no harm but I can promise we’ll do our damndest to prevent it. We’ll be in the next room, watching everything as it happens.” Jack had nodded, Sir Clive was convincing and he didn’t yet have the hard-won cynicism of his father.

  They’d given him four cameras, told him to place one in each corner of the room, and a tiny pinhead camera, which he pushed into the lapel of his jacket. They’d sync them up on a live feed to a computer in the next room.

  “If there’s even the slightest hint that they intend to take you out we’ll be there in a second. But we have to let them have a shot at stealing the device, let them think they’ve got away with it. We need to follow them, see where they lead us.”

  He’d stepped away from his desk, moved towards the window, the view of the Thames.