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 couldn’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.