Clement cast a glace about the courtyard, taking in the groups of children sitting smoking on ammunition crates, their eyes cold and empty as a spent cartridge, dulled by the work he made them do, the routine killing. They barely registered his presence; they were too busy cooking up bush meat on small fires. There were no salutes in this army. Enough order to ensure they followed commands, enough food to ensure they didn’t steal, and enough of the powerful jungle brew to ensure they didn’t feel. At least not for now. Most of them didn’t think to question his orders. By the age of ten or twelve they’d already been killing for too long.
“I want a full report of the month’s mining activities. Any troops lost, any problems amongst the men. And I want to check the refinery. You said there was a fire there last week.” Clement took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from this forehead. He drew a deep breath, his tone softened, “but I will take my usual refreshment first. You have made a good selection this time I trust? That last jungle cat bit like a python.”
Uko nodded. “Yes sir, I think you will be most satisfied. We took her from a village in the north. They are known for their beauty. She was spirited at first but has become more subdued. We spiked her tea with opium.”
Clement nodded and headed up the curving marble staircase to the rooms he had made into his living quarters. He had a ritual he liked to perform whenever he returned to the jungle. It was, after all, a war zone, and like all generals he was prone to superstition.
He pushed gently at the large double doors and stepped into the chamber. In one corner, near the shuttered window, was a dark figure hunched up in a red sarong. A young girl, eyes wide with fear, no more than 13 years of age.
The room was cool after the heat of the jungle, cool as a tomb. In the half-light he could see tears on her cheeks, a gentle sob interrupted now she saw him. He undid his belt, slowly, thoughtfully, wrapping the long strip of leather round and round his right wrist, buckle facing outwards.
“I hear you’re a tough little thing. You know what we do with tough meat?” He said standing over her, his body odour thick and unpleasant. The girl shook her head vigorously from side to side.
“We beat it till its tender. You going to be a tough girl?” Another shake of the head, even stronger.
“Good, good girl,” Clement replied, before raising his hand and delivering a slap so hard it knocked one of her teeth half-way across the room.
27
Jack opened the door to his College digs warily, half expecting an ambush. Nothing. The room was in the same mess it had been when he left it three weeks ago. Piles of books on his desk and on the floor. Most of them from the library and overdue. A mug that looked like it may contain a new strand of penicillin in the green mould that covered the inside, a stash of laundry spilling over from a basket in the corner. He walked through to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face, then unpacked the cameras he’d been given by MI6. They were small, no more than four centimetres in length. He positioned them as he’d been told. High as possible and close to the corners of the room, then checked his watch. How long would he have to wait?
A tap at the door. He steeled himself, not knowing what to expect. One hand on the latch, he opened it.
“Hi Jack, everything ok?” The MI6 officer who’d sat near him on the train. He cast an expert eye round the room.
“Cameras are good. We’re synced up in the room across the hallway. Only thing now is to wait.” Jack wondered what Dr. Hargreaves, the famously grumpy emeritus professor in Modern History made of the intrusion into his rooms. He probably didn’t mind, might even have recruited half the current senior managers at MI6.
“Oh here, I almost forgot,” the officer said, passing him a brown paper bag. “Food,” the officer said, in answer to Jack’s puzzled expression. “Try and eat something, there’s no knowing how long the wait will be. Anything else you can do to distract yourself then go ahead and do it, just don’t leave this room.” Jack nodded and placed the bag of food on his desk. What he really wanted to do was call Amanda and let her know what was going on, but Sir Clive had expressly forbidden it.
“You’re to have no contact with anyone, don’t answer your phone, don’t use e-mail. Anyone knocks on your door open it, but tell them you don’t feel well and get rid of them as fast as you can. For their safety as much as yours.” Jack had listened carefully and nodded obediently.
He sat at his desk and emptied the paper bag onto it. Some fruit, chocolate bars, a couple of pork pies and crisps. Coca-Cola. A regular picnic. He picked up a textbook and started reading. Might as well try and make up for those three weeks of study he’d missed.
To his surprise the anxiety of waiting was quickly forgotten. He found his eyelids growing heavy. He lay down on the badly sprung College mattress and shut his eyes, body relaxing, muscles beginning to unknot themselves. His last thought was whether he would be able to convince his attackers he was surprised when they burst through the door.
Somewhere in the darkness an insistent tapping. Knuckle on wood. Jack got up, rubbed his face. There it was again, tap tap tap. He checked his watch, quarter to nine. Would the attackers knock? Seemed unlikely. He got up and switched on the light, opened the door a crack.
It swung hard into his face, a cricket bat bang on his forehead. He stumbled backwards, a boot in his chest, two men pressing down on his wrists, pinning him to the ground. The urge to struggle was strong, to kick out with his legs, flick himself upwards, take them out. He managed to suppress it. A handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, making him want to gag. No blindfold. If they don’t blindfold you, it means they don’t care whether or not you see them, so it’s likely they intend to kill you. Sir Clive had told him calmly, as if he was describing how to pick a winner at Ascot. If that’s the case we’ll move into position.
Jack looked up, a face came into view, someone he recognised. The man from the lab, still dressed in the same grey suit. No white coat this time, just dark circles under the eyes and two days growth of stubble. He looked haggard. There was a jerkiness to his movements, hysteria twitching under the surface. The man knelt down, opened the brief case he was carrying. Jack could see his hands shaking. He expected him to pull out a scalpel, to see the glint of the blade, but his hand held something else.
To the surprise of everyone, not least the two men holding Jack down, the man leapt backwards, waving a gun wildly at the other people in the room. Two shots. Deafening in the enclosed space. Jack felt the pressure on his arms released. Transferred to his stomach. One of the men had collapsed on top of him, the other lay on the floor beside him. Eyes wide open, deathly still, frozen in shock at the unexpected attack.
“Money first. Then I remove the device.” The man’s voice was strained, stretched and distorted by irregular breathing. No response from whoever else was in the room, “I didn’t sign up for this, I’m not having you silence me after all the shit I’ve been through. Not before I’ve been paid.”
A different voice, unusually calm, with a heavy French accent.
“Dr. Seladin, you are making things rather difficult for me. I am not sure what I have done to earn such distrust.” Jack craned his neck upwards. By the doorway was a suited and rather fat Chinese man. His palms open before him, his eyes cool and patient.
“Please cut the device out so we can get on our way; you will get your money,” he added.
“No, we take him with us, I remove the device only after you transfer the funds,” the man stabbed the gun at Monsieur Blanc, emphasising each syllable, his voice a hysterical whisper.
“Very well, but please let us hurry. I know these Colleges have some strange traditions but firing shots in a student’s room is likely to bring unwanted attention.” Dr.Seladin seemed at a loss now that Monsieur Blanc had agreed to his demand. He lowered his weapon a fraction, nodded slightly. That was all Monsieur Blanc needed. He stepped forwards,
a flash of metal in his right hand, steel spike up through the man’s rib cage and into his heart.
“Come with me”, he hissed into Jack’s ear, jerking him up by the arm, pressing the spike into his kidney. He marched him along the corridor. Doors had started to open, students appearing in the corridor.
“It’s alright, everything under control, just a couple of fireworks. Chinese New Year. Nothing to worry about.” Monsieur Blanc said as he walked him briskly down the stairs, across Second Court and over the bridge.
Jack kept checking over his shoulder. No intervention from Sir Clive’s team. Were they watching him to see what happened, about make their move? Or were they going to let him be led away by the fat Chinaman? Jack could feel the point of the blade cutting into his side. He could tell from the way the man held it he knew exactly how to use it. Jack might have a chance if he could get a few centimetres between him and the steel but until then he’d have to grin and bear it.
“This way,” the man led him through the iron gates at the rear of the College. A Mercedes people carrier with blacked out windows was waiting at the side of the road. Where the hell was Sir Clive’s team? He hadn’t agreed to let himself be driven off wherever these guys fancied.
Now or never, Jack thought, looking at the cars on the busy road, thinking they would give him some cover if he could get to the other side. A sharp stinging pain in his neck. Vision blurred, legs to jelly. Monsieur Blanc caught him as he collapsed downwards, then he replaced the syringe in his pocket and tried to bundle the boy into the van.
“Problem?” The driver asked over his shoulder.
“You could say that.” Monsieur Blanc replied, out of breath. “We have the tenth device but unfortunately it comes in this rather inconvenient package.” He gestured at the body. The driver jumped out to help him.
“What you want to do?” He asked, surveying the six-foot-five blond-haired figure lying crumpled and unconscious, ankles dangling out the side door. Monsieur Blanc shrugged.
“Take him with us, no time for anything else. Give me a hand, would you, Gustav.”
Through the window of a hired Ford Focus on the other side of the road, Jack’s dad watched the two men bundle his son into the car. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. As much to stop them shaking as in anger. He’d seen them take his son, had no opportunity to intervene. He’d also noticed the standard issue MI6 car on the other side of the road. A Vauxhall Astra, windows blacked out, but he was pretty sure there were MI6 surveillance officers inside, ready to follow the Mercedes.
He banged his fists on the steering wheel. How had his son got mixed up in this? Why hadn’t he seen it coming, tried harder to talk him out of it? In his jacket pocket was a hipflask. He reached for it and took a swig of whisky, then threw it down on the floor in disgust. Even now he seemed intent on sabotaging his own efforts at rescue.
28
MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
Sir Clive had watched the video footage on the live feed back in the control room at MI6. Events had taken an unexpected turn, but he refused the team permission to move in and rescue the boy. We need to see where they’re going with this, we have to find out who the buyer is for the devices. He’d hissed into the radio mic. The men on the scene had held back reluctantly.
He knew full well where Monsieur Blanc was headed. Knew about the private plane he had stationed at an airfield just outside Cambridge, knew exactly where that plane was going, and knew that he needed to let the man deliver all ten devices to Clement Nbotou in whatever form he could. If Clement didn’t buy the devices, there’d be no excuse to send in a covert force to take him out. No excuse to secure control of the region under the general’s command. Take over the coltan mines for his friends at Centurion. He checked himself. Friend wasn’t quite the right word, unless you wanted to argue that friendship could be bought.
Harvey Newman had approached him at an arms fair in Houston a couple of years ago. Sir Clive had always found the term fair oddly inappropriate. The annual sales conferences were where the defence industry got together and exhibited their latest weapon technology, setting out stalls and attempting to persuade governments, despots and paranoid billionaires that they really couldn’t do without the latest laser-guided Teflon-coated armour-piercing missile. A business suit and a white-toothed smile from the salesmen as they explained how to maximise lethal force and non-civilian fallout.
Sir Clive was there on business. Not buying, just keeping his eye on the market. A lot of the technology MI6 used they developed themselves, but it was a good place to get ideas, see what other products were out there. It was also useful to see who else was shopping.
He was surprised when a man approached him directly, introduced himself as Harvey Newman. Even more surprised when the man revealed he knew his name. I won’t bullshit you, Sir Clive, I know you’re a busy man. Sir Clive wasn’t in disguise, but then again he wasn’t exactly wearing a name badge either, and he’d flown in on a passport with a different name. His first reaction had been to scan the room, see if he was being set up, check for the exit points and work out how he could get out of there. Harvey caught the discreet glance and understood its meaning.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly, handing over his business card. “I’m here on business. My company has a stall over on the other side of the room.” Sir Clive read the card, CENTURION, Strategy, Defence and Integrated Weapon Systems. He knew the name, a big player in the American defence industry. Held half the contracts with the US government to provide security for oil companies in Iraq. They’d also managed to avoid any formal investigations into their soldiers, despite allegations some of them were distinctly trigger happy.
“And I’m not trying to sell you anything either,” Harvey added, a broad grin on his suntanned face. “What I would like to do is buy you a coffee, chat a little about what my company does, see if there’s anything that might interest you in the way we work,” he didn’t give much away, but he hoped the Englishman had got the idea there might be something in this for him. Sir Clive nodded. He noted the casual way the man said my company, as if ownership of a multi-billion dollar corporation was something easily achieved, easily maintained. He checked his watch, he had a couple of hours to kill before he had to get to the airport for his flight home, and he certainly knew of the man by reputation. “Why not?” He replied.
Harvey had done his homework before he approached Sir Clive. He knew his abrupt personality had made him enough enemies in the British Secret Service to prevent him from ever being promoted to the top job, Director General, and he knew the salary the man was paid was a pittance compared with what he could get at a private security firm. He also knew he was a resourceful and capable project planner, ruthless when he needed to be, but above all creative in his thinking. Able to anticipate problems and devise a strategy to resolve them before they got out of hand, before others were even aware there was a problem.
Every man had his price, and the sums of money Centurion paid its select group of board members annually were likely to be beyond anything Sir Clive would earn over an entire career in the British Secret Service. But Harvey knew that wouldn’t be enough, the man was no mercenary or he’d have quit the Service and taken his expertise elsewhere long ago. Money might be a factor, but it was no deal breaker. No, he would have to appeal to his wider sensibilities, his vanity, the kick he got from doing a difficult and highly pressurised job to the best of his abilities. Cash was just the sugar coating.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Newman?” Sir Clive asked, as the man set down two huge cardboard beakers full of coffee on the metal table
Harvey smiled. “It’s more a question of what we can do for you.” He took a sip of the tasteless coffee and grimaced. “Ugh, apologies for the dishwater. This country is good at many things but making a decent coffee isn’t one of them.” Sir Clive didn’t say anything, hoping it would encourage the man t
o get to the point.
“See anything you like at the fair?” Harvey asked. The tactic evidently didn’t work. Sir Clive remained silent, he focused his clear blue eyes on Harvey, unblinking, his mouth set patiently in a neutral expression. Harvey got the message and got to the point.
“We like your work, Sir Clive,” he said, his voice low. “Been watching you for some time. Over in Iraq, in Nigeria. You’re precise, efficient, and have a good handle on the logistics of moving troops about. We like that.” Sir Clive allowed himself a cautious smile, he sensed a sales pitch coming. The man was probably hoping he was in charge of procurement and would put in a hefty order for some over-priced, untested, and probably completely useless missile system.
“We could do with someone like you on our executive board. On a purely consultative basis, not more than one day per month of your time.” Sir Clive was surprised, he hadn’t seen that coming, but he kept his face neutral.
“Why me?” He asked. Harvey nodded. “You have experience in Africa. We need some help there. Some advice. You heard of coltan?” Sir Clive nodded his head.
“Of course. It’s the reason the civilian population in the Eastern Congo is getting the shit kicked out of it by three different countries and a range of militias all at the same time. One of the most beautiful areas of the planet turned into hell on earth. But you don’t need an intelligence chief to tell you that. The Human Rights agencies have been all over it.”
“No, you’re right. We need your advice on a more strategic issue. You see, we need a steady supply of the metal for a new weapon we’re developing, a contract we have with the US government. Not enough is getting through, and when it does, the prices are so high they’re squeezing our profit margins.” He took another swig of the coffee, grimacing. “And we don’t very much like our profit margins being squeezed.”
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