She’d dumped the car in the suburbs. A residential street near Mile End, headed to a greasy spoon round the corner and ordered a fry up. Enough change to keep herself in cups of tea until it was time to trek to central London. Jack had called her yesterday, told her to ditch the phone and the car and meet him in a public place. He was flying in later that afternoon. As long as he made it through customs.
The tourists came and went beneath the garish flashing billboards, posing for photographs. Adverts that must have seemed the height of consumer sophistication when they first appeared, part of the bright lights of London, now tired and irritating.
She’d reluctantly taken the camera on a couple of occasions, framed a picture of a smiling couple against the fountain before handing it back, a lump in her throat. Smile hiding the conflict inside of her, the hope Jack would be there to meet her, the fear something might have happened to him.
Dusk came quickly, the air noticeably colder as the faint warmth offered by the low sun was swallowed up in darkness. The streets were busier now, smart-suited Londoners making their way to bars and restaurants, chatting loudly on mobiles phones, keen for the world to know the exciting plans they had for the night ahead.
“Amanda,” a voice behind her. A hand on her shoulder. She turned into Jack’s embrace, gripping him tightly, fists clenching the material of his jacket. She strained her neck back, looking up at him. The beard still there, cheeks even more hollow than they’d looked after the clinical trial, eyes that blazed with a new intensity. An unwavering resolution, something she hadn’t seen before.
He stroked her long blond hair, breathed in its scent, the warmth of her body seeping through the thin clothes he was wearing. Kissed her lips, sweet with chapstick. A deep kiss, unashamed and unembarrassed.
“My father,” he said, pulling away, his voice cracked. “They killed my father.” Amanda pulled him close, didn’t say anything, just held him. They stayed like that, oblivious to the movement all around them, the people pushing past, an attempt to block out the rest of the world.
“What do we do Jack, run away, call the Police?” she said eventually. Jack shrugged.
“Not the police,” he said, pressing her head against his shoulder, eyes scanning the people passing by, on the lookout once again.
“I need some warm clothes.” He shivered. “After that I thought we could pick up my dad’s old car, take a trip to Paris. There’s someone there who might be able to help us.”
80
The road ahead was quiet. Rush hour over. The sound of the engine and the tyres on the road mixed together. A familiar sound, constant, soporific.
“You should sleep, let me drive.” Amanda said. They were heading to Folkestone, Jack driving his dad’s old Volvo picked up from the house in Croydon. His father’s credit cards too. And some cash he’d found in a drawer in the hall. The speedometer was broken and never rose above thirty miles an hour. Had to be careful, judge his speed by the other drivers. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled over by the police for speeding.
He’d explained what happened, with his father and in the Congo. The details sounded unreal as he spoke them out loud.
“So Sir Clive thinks you’re out of the picture? That it’s just me left who can link him to Centurion, to the coltan?” Jack nodded grimly, eyes fixed on the road. Silence between them.
“He won’t stop, Mands,” he said at last. “He won’t stop.”
Amanda reached forward and twisted the radio dial. Anything to distract her. The damn thing didn’t work. She slumped back in her seat.
“This man in Paris, the one we’re going to see. You sure you can trust him?”
Jack shrugged. “Hope so. I guess you know you’re in the shit when you have to go to an arms dealer for help.” Amanda thought for one moment he was making a joke, but the expression on his face was deadly serious.
It was half ten by the time they reached Folkestone. Too late to catch the last shuttle. They booked into a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of the town. Magnolia walls and cheap green carpets that built up with static and gave you electric shocks, but by the time they got to their room they couldn’t have cared less. It was better than sleeping in the car, and the sudden realisation that they had the night together, alone, awoke in them the irresistible desire they had done their best to ignore whilst apart. They stood for a moment, eyes only able to focus on each other, the hotel room dissolving into a featureless blur around them.
They fell into a fervent embrace, gripping at each other’s clothes, fingers seeking skin through material. The fear, the tension of the last few days transformed into an overwhelming energy. Jack hoisted her up, one arm tight underneath her thighs, banging her roughly against the plasterboard wall, his other hand dragging at her jeans, pushing, pulling them down round her ankles. His fingers flicked her underwear to one side as she grappled with his trousers, anxious to feel him uncoil, spring to life in her hands. She arched her neck backwards deliciously as he pierced her, she sighed with a sharp intake of breath, pinned to the wall.
A dull grey drizzle was falling when they left the next morning. It glinted in the orange glow of the car park lights. Six am, no one else up yet.
“Suppose I better get in the boot,” Amanda said somewhat reluctantly.
“Suppose you should.” Jack replied, “he’ll have an alert out on your passport.” At least it was a decent size, he thought as he opened it up, pushed the cans of WD40 and old blankets to one side. Amanda climbed in, curling herself into a ball.
“Sorry about the smell of damp dogs,” he said
“Least of my worries,” she replied through gritted teeth.
81
Sir Clive poured himself a drink. Eight in the morning but it might as well have been eight in the evening. His body clock was shot. The last few days had taken it out of him. He’d have stormed through the sleepless nights as a young man. Not so now. They’d found the blue Golf on a side street. No news on the owner. Images from the one CCTV camera in the nearby area that were working had shown a tall blond figure entering a cafe.
He had a team working on footage taken from the local tube stations and streets, working through the night, but so far nothing. And there was a limit to the manpower he could allocate without drawing attention to the op.
He’d have to call Harvey and let him know the situation. He wasn’t looking forward to the call, or the ear-bashing he’d get on the incompetence of MI6 field officers. Reluctantly he picked up the phone, savouring the single malt as he swirled it round his glass.
He checked his watch, would be about one in the morning L.A time. Too bad.
“Harvey. How are you? Sir Clive here.”
“Clivey-boy. Great to hear from you. We’re doing good. Very good as it happens.” He sounded drunk. Sir Clive could hear music in the background, the thump of bass, voices chattering, glasses clinking, women laughing. Sounded like a party. “We’ve already freighted in enough coltan to fulfil our government contracts.” Harvey continued breezily. “Having a little party to celebrate. You sorted out that problem of yours yet?”
Sir Clive swallowed the last of the whisky. He could hear the background noise growing quieter, Harvey must have decided to head outside.
“Afraid not. Trail’s gone cold.” Silence from Harvey. On a personal level he didn’t have much to lose if some girl started mouthing off to the press about Sir Clive. Centurion’s business practices might have been on the darker side of shady, but they were a billion dollar Security company, a manufacturer of high-tech weaponry, not a smoothie maker. No one expected them to be whiter than white. As long as they were profitable he had nothing to fear. No, it was Sir Clive’s reputation that would be in tatters. Still, he didn’t like the thought of his company’s name being dragged through the mud, he liked his low profile.