He cast his eye over the chaos. No one inside the car could have survived, they’d be in pieces. Crowds were gathering, moving in slow motion, the shock of the blast dulling their senses. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t forgotten that. The taxi driver was collateral damage. Sir Clive’s plan straight out of the rule book. Fit the cab with a remote device then pay a local driver to pick up your target. Chances are they wouldn’t suspect anything, just assume they’d hailed a cab that happened to be passing. Ruthless but effective. He stubbed out his cigarette, turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. No one paid him the slightest attention.
Jack could feel someone tugging at his arm, a blurred figure above him. The woman from the hotel. He raised his head, waved her away, heaved himself onto the pavement. Her mouth was moving but he couldn’t make out the words. Panic in the streets around him, people running, people bleeding, glass everywhere. He couldn’t hear, just muffled sounds, the high-pitched ringing in his ears blocking out everything else.
The car was a wreck, metal torn and blackened. No sign of the driver. No sign of his father. He leant back against the wall, moving each of his fingers, they felt as if they belonged to someone else. Then his hands, massaging his wrists, stretching his arms, his legs. He had survived. His body was bruised but not broken.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet. One foot in front of the other, a dizziness in his brain. He walked towards a cafe, pushing his way through the crowd. Voices growing louder. Checked his watch. Still ticking. Maybe the Omega was lucky after all. Lucky for him at least. He pushed through the café door, the place empty. A quick wash in the sink. Clean up the cuts and the blood that had matted his beard, check his face in the mirror. Bruises forming below each eye. Must have broken his nose. In his mind one thought, one need. Revenge. First Burundi. Spike van de Weye. Passport and ticket home. Then he’d deal with Sir Clive.
77
Amanda braked hard as she pulled into the service station. A family getting out of their car, stepping into her path. They looked at her angrily. She swerved to avoid them. Two hours driving, fingers clamped to the steering wheel. Deep breaths as the car came to a standstill. She wound down the window. The journey a blur, the cars she had passed, miles of road disappearing underneath the tyres. She grabbed the phone from the seat beside her, unconsciously checked her appearance in the rear view mirror, called Jack. Her hand was shaking now. Come on Jack, pick up, pick up the phone.
Sir Clive flicked through the news channels, pausing as he came to the BBC world service. A street scene, messy, the wreckage of a car. He had the TV on mute but the headlines flashed along the bottom of the screen in a continuous stream. Breaking news: Car bomb explodes in Kampala, two British tourists and one local man dead. Al Qaeda suspected. More soon. The shot cut back to the newsreader behind her desk, serious face, interviewing a security expert with an equally serious face.
He turned off the TV, amazing how quickly they could be on a story in this day and age. Someone was always there with a camera phone, keen to capture the disaster, post it online, gain significance by association with another man’s tragedy.
Nick Clarke had already been in contact. The success of the operation confirmed. Textbook stuff. The man would now be in charge of overseeing the UK’s role in the investigation. Some things were beyond irony, Sir Clive thought as he flicked through the file on his desk. Amanda Marshall. He toyed with the idea of letting her go, calling off the search, then closed it decisively. The loose ends needed to be tied up. Too much at stake for him personally.
Time to put an alert out on the car, and all credit cards in her name. He had field officer Michaels on standby. It was just a matter of time. She was only an amateur after all.
78
The sun dipped low in the African sky, transforming the dust plains into lakes of gold. In the distance, electric lights shimmered, the highway was carrying trucks laden with people and goods away from the capital city. The rumble of traffic. Jack took a sip of the beer Spike had placed in front of him.
“Hell of a soldier, your pa.” he said, eying Jack carefully, taking in the beard, the lean frame. He wasn’t fooled by the boy’s composure, could sense the fierce anger behind his unnervingly still gaze. A ticking bomb if ever he saw one. Jack nodded. Didn’t reply.
“Anyone else caught in the blast?”
“Taxi driver, a couple of passersby might have been injured.” Spike nodded.
“You ok? Want me to get a doctor? Get you checked out?”
“No. I need to get home. Things to do. You managed to sort the tickets and passports?” Spike nodded.
“Just need a photo.” He sighed, it was like sitting opposite Archie. The same stubborn, headstrong streak. He was worried for the boy. Worried he was out of his depth.
“You know who did it?”
“Yes.” Jack replied.
“And you think you can take them? Even though they got your pa?” Silence. The possibility he might fail hadn’t even occurred to Jack. Only one thought since he dragged his weary body to the airstrip, climbed into the Cessna, flew the short distance to Burundi. Revenge. An unquenchable desire for revenge. Spike sensed his resolve. Knew there was no point in trying to reason with the boy.
“Anyone who can help you back home?” Jack shook his head, then paused, felt in his jacket pocket. The business card. Monsieur Blanc’s P.O. box number.
“Possibly.” He said, the memory of the fat Chinaman strangely reassuring.
Spike wasn’t convinced. “Let me tell you something about your pa, kid,” he said, lighting a cigarette. If he couldn’t reason with the boy he could at least offer him some advice. “Archie was a hell of soldier. Terrible spy, but a hell of a soldier. You know the difference Jack? You know the difference between a soldier and a spy?” Jack shrugged, Spike took a deep drag on the cigarette.
“A soldier is always two people. The one who fights, who kills. And the one who comes home, the one who looks after his wife, his kids. He leaves the soldier on the battle field, has to, you can’t bring him into your house.”
He paused, spat thoughtfully on the floor. “Two lives but he lives them separately. Otherwise he’s fucked. A spook, now that’s a different creature altogether.” He leaned in close to Jack, placed a hand on his shoulder.
“A spook lives two lives at the same time. Side by side. Has to. It’s his job. Takes a real cold fish to be a good spook. A real sneaky bastard. A spook never leaves the battlefield.” He relaxed back into his chair, looked Jack square in the eye. “The man who got your dad Jack, is a spook, a spook through and through.”
Jack rubbed his hands over his eyes. His nose was beginning to sting. He wanted to use the phone.
“What are you Jack? A spook or a solider? You want to bring down the people who did this you’re going to have to sleep with your eyes open. You won’t be off the battlefield. Not till the big man’s dead. Not till you’ve seen him buried and you’ve danced on his grave and checked his grimy little hands aren’t pushing apart the soil.”
Jack nodded, eyes on the phone behind the bar, mind on Amanda. “Mind if I make a call?”
79
Amanda checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. She’d been there since three in the afternoon. Felt terrible. A freezing night spent in the car then an early morning drive to London. At the back of her mind the constant fear that someone was watching her, ready to give chase.