“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.
“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.