Sir Clive was taken aback. Hadn’t been expecting that. He checked his watch. Almost 1 o’clock. Didn’t give him much time. What files? Did he have something on him? Something he’d picked up in the jungle?
Jack had obviously decided he wanted to call the shots, no chance of Harvey sending help. At least he had Field Officer Michaels and his UK team on standby. He could have them ready within the hour, in position on the Paris street before well before midnight. He scrolled down, at the bottom of the page an image. A broken headpiece and blood splattered high-tech sat phone. The type used by the SAS, photographed against a clinical white background. Sir Clive glanced over his shoulder instinctively, this was not an e-mail he wanted anyone else seeing. Even if the boy had stumbled across one of the team’s phones in the Congo, the data he’d be able to extract from it would be limited and encoded. He bit his lip, remembering Jack’s background in Computer Sciences.
“Michaels,” he snapped into his phone, “four man team at the ready. We’re going to Paris.”
85
Monsieur Blanc peered over Jack’s shoulder, checking the e-mail had been sent. He’d asked Amanda to leave the room, much to her indignation.
“I assure you it is simply so that you do not know the finer points of how we intend to deal with Sir Clive. Trust me, if anything goes wrong, the less you know the better.” Amanda looked for support from Jack but he’d simply shrugged.
“I guess he’s right,” he’d said, “if this goes wrong I don’t want any of it coming back on you.”
Monsieur Blanc closed the door behind her, glanced at his watch. “Sir Clive will send some people to observe the location, probably be there in three hours if they use a helicopter. You’ll need to be in place as soon as possible.” He paused, looking at Jack closely.
“You are sure you want to go through with this?” He asked.
“He killed my father. He wants to kill Amanda.” Jack replied simply. A hatred borne of cold logic, not passion. “What choice do I have?” Monsieur Blanc nodded. It wasn’t a question.
“Fine,” he said, opening up a map of Paris and spreading it over his desk. “These are the key vantage points they are likely to occupy outside the cemetery. The best places from which to observe the phone booth. You’ll need to work out a discreet route between them, moving as quickly as possible. Take out each operative before the others realise what’s going on. May I suggest you use darts rather than bullets? I have a modified gun that fires just the right dose of hydrogen cyanide. You can even attach a scope. And I have something special you might like to use on Sir Clive.” Jack raised his eyebrows.
“Sounds lethal,” he said. Monsieur Blanc nodded.
“Oh it most certainly is, which is another reason why I suggested Amanda leave the room. In my experience doctors show a remarkable reluctance to end human life.”
“Mmm,” Jack mumbled noncommittally, eyes on the map, memorising the layout of the roads around the cemetery. He’d decide what to tell her later.
“Now, let me show you something,” Monsieur Blanc said, stepping theatrically away from the desk and sliding back one of the white wall panels. It opened to reveal a heavy-looking cast iron door, the sort you’d find on a bank vault.
“This house was built by a Monsieur Guillancourt. One of the most respected financiers in 18th century France. He had the safe constructed during the revolution. Didn’t want any of the paysans getting their hands on his possessions. I’ve modified it slightly,” he said as he entered a code into a keypad on the front, waiting for it to open with the enthusiastic impatience of a child outside a toy store.
“This is where I keep my wares,” he said proudly, gesturing to the rows of high tech weaponry gleaming against the velvet-lined walls.
Field Officer Michaels and the rest of his crew sat stoney-faced in the Lynx helicopter, the noise of the blades made conversation nigh on impossible. He was concerned with their lack of preparation time. Despite Sir Clive’s assurances they were dealing with an amateur he still liked to have a solid knowledge of the geography of the zone he was working in. He didn’t know Paris well. Maps and building plans were no substitute for face time at the location. Sir Clive had told them to use knives, don’t go shooting the boy or his girlfriend, it had to look like a robbery gone wrong. A panicked lunge from a gutter-crawling low life that happened to catch an artery, not a pre-meditated murder.
Michaels didn’t like knives. Too messy. And you had to be close. Two of the team would need to hold the boy down whilst he put a blade to his neck. Give him a silenced Walther P99 any day.
He checked the map of the cemetery. It was in a run-down part of the city, a popular tourist attraction during the day but deserted at night. Sir Clive’s brief involved the killing of two British citizens on French soil, there was no room for error.
“What are you thinking?” Sir Clive asked, raising his voice above the roar of the helicopter blades. Michaels shrugged.
“The sooner we get to the location the better,” he shouted back. “I want to have time to get the team in position.”
86
Jack cast a wary glance along the boulevard. He was seated in a hired car with a clear view of the street, discarded sandwich wrappers and crisp packets on the seat next to him. The first part of the plan, position yourself so you’re clearly visible, let them know where you are. If they can see you they’ll think they’re in control, that they have the upper hand. Make them less cautious.
The boulevard was busy, a long queue of tourists outside the cemetery, even at this time of day. A steady of stream of Parisians going into the boulangerie on the corner, emerging with baguettes under their arm. Must be a decent baker, Jack thought hungrily, wishing he had nothing to worry about other than buying bread for an evening meal.
He checked the bus time table open on his lap. The number forty-three was due to pull up at quarter to, as it did every hour. So far the service had been pretty regular. He needed it to be on time tonight. It would give him the cover he needed. Until then the plan was to remain in position, exit the car every hour or so and furtively look up and down the street, acting out the role of amateur spy. He’d bought a cap and hooded top but shaved off the beard, under his hat his hair was dyed dark brown. An obvious attempt to disguise himself, clothes that served to draw attention to him, made him look as if he didn’t want to be recognised. All part of the plan.
He kept his eyes on the street, watching for the faces that didn’t change. The people who lingered a little too long over their coffee, who seemed to take an unnatural amount of interest in the newspaper they were reading. Anything out of the ordinary.
He was pretty sure he’d identified two of them. One sat in a car on a side road that had a direct view of the phone booth. He’d seen him when he went to the café. A youngish man in jeans and tee-shirt texting in the driver’s seat. Still there when Jack went to the café an hour later. No one spent that long sending a text.
“Seen any others?” Amanda’s voice from the foot well on the passenger side, her body curled into a tight ball, covered from view by a loose blanket.
Jack put a hand over his mouth before he replied. Didn’t want to give any indication there was someone else in the car, especially not someone dressed in exactly the same clothes as he was, hood pulled low over her face, peak of the cap poking out from under it.
“Man in the queue for the cemetery. Whenever he gets close to the front he excuses himself and crosses the street. Disappears into a shop then rejoins the back of the queue.”