He moved his hand away from his mouth, careful not to look down. Amanda was baring up well, her long slender limbs curled into an uncomfortable ball in the tiny space.
Sir Clive was drinking coffee in a hotel room at the far end of the street, field officer Michaels with him. They were in radio contact with the three agents on the ground. So far everything was going to plan. They’d identified the target, confirmed he looked jumpy. Busy road. Central Paris boulevard. No chance of slipping discretely into the back seat and killing the boy, not if they wanted this to look like a mugging gone wrong. Best to sit it out.
Amanda tried to stretch her legs as best she could in the tiny space. They were beginning to cramp. The minutes ticked by with interminable slowness. Past eleven pm now, the street almost empty. A few stragglers at the café.
“Can you still see them?” She asked quietly.
“Two in doorway either side of the baker. Other two in the car. No sign of Sir Clive.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” She asked, her voice nervous. Jack didn’t reply. This wasn’t a question of what he wanted, it was a question of what needed to be done. He checked his watch. Each second taking an age to tick by. How did people make a career of this? If the enemy didn’t kill you the boredom would.
“I’m going on one last trip to the tabac across the road.” He said eventually. “Let them see me, remind them what I’m wearing.”
The MI6 officers watched the dark figure climb out the car, run quickly across the street and into the shop, shoulders hunched, cap pulled low over his eyes. He emerged a few moments later with a pack of chewing gum and a bottle of water.
“Ready?” He said under his breath to Amanda as he opened the car door. “The bus is approaching.” He pulled the door shut, checked his rear view mirror, bright lights heading towards them. He loosened his belt, working his trousers down to his ankles, another pair underneath, pale-coloured. Now the black hooded jacket, discretely unzipped. The bus was almost on them.
“Three, two, one…” A hiss of airbrakes. The bus alongside, blocking them from view, doors opening, passengers getting out. Amanda clambered up quickly from the foot well, hands on the steering wheel, yanking herself up, muscles screaming in pain at the sudden movement into the driver’s seat, same clothes as Jack had been wearing, an extra jumper to bulk out the hooded top, cushion under the seat. Her hair tucked up into the cap, face hidden by shadow. The changeover, exactly as they’d practised. Jack slipped out stealthily in the same movement, closing the door quietly behind him. The bus pulled away.
The MI6 officers kept their eyes on the car. The figure behind the wheel. They paid little attention to the passengers that got off the bus, to the tall dark-haired figure in a light-coloured business suit, briefcase swinging by his side, crossing the street towards them. They heard him though, heard the cheerful whistle, the Marseillaise of all things, and the shoes click-clacking on the pavement. Did their best to ignore it. Eyes on the man in the car. Only 10 minutes till the meeting. Midnight by the phone booth. This looked like it might turn out to be straightforward, a clean kill. The moment the boy approached Sir Clive they’d take him out.
Jack yanked the gun from the tape that held it to the side of the briefcase. The weapon was bulky and awkward. Modified to fit the darts. He didn’t slow his pace, fired two silenced shots into the first doorway, kept moving, aware of the dark figure that slumped backwards. Two more shots into the second doorway. Same result. This time he caught a sharp intake of breath from the victim. The paralysing effects of the serum. As lethal and effective as Monsieur Blanc had claimed. He turned the corner, walked towards the parked car, kept his pace constant. Just as he’d suspected. Two figures inside. He walked past without glancing in, same rhythm to his echoing footsteps, same whistle, down the street and into an alley.
Sir Clive walked cautiously towards the phone booth, glancing at his watch. One minute to midnight. No word from the two officers on the street but the men in the car confirmed he could proceed as planned. He could see the parked Renault that contained Jack Hartman. The hooded figure hunched over the wheel. He pulled at the stiff plate-glass door, it protested with a noisy screech, stepped into the phone booth.
“In position and waiting,” he said under his breath, trusting the mic taped to his neck would pick it up.
“We have you covered. Once the boy leaves the car we’ll be on him.”
Jack peered over the rear passenger window of the MI6 Officers’ car, watching the two shadowy forms seated inside, one of them speaking into a walkie-talkie. It was them, no doubt about it. He’d crept back silently in his socks, heart thumping louder than the soft pad of his feet on the pavement. Crouched low, he placed one hand on the door handle, the other on the gun. If it was locked he’d have to smash the glass, if not two shots per passenger. Only one needed, the second to be sure. His hand pushed gently upwards, expecting resistance. None came, the latch released, door opening. Poor fools, they really weren’t expecting the battle to come to them. Jack fired, emptying the gun. Body shot and a leg shot for each officer, just in case they’d decided to put on body armour. He stepped away from the car. All over in a couple of seconds, at least for them. One hand on his phone, dialling the number of the booth across the street, walking cautiously back towards the boulevard.
87
The electronic ring of the phone was loud in the booth, Sir Clive almost jumped, then cursed himself for doing so. He picked up the receiver.
“There’s a mobile taped to the booth. Un-tape it and climb over the cemetery wall. Wait for my instructions on the other side. If I see anyone follow you it’s off.” The line went dead. Unmistakably Jack. Sir Clive felt a flush of anger. The impudent little shit, thinking he could order him about. He looked back down the street towards the parked car. The hooded figure still visible behind the steering wheel. Just you wait Jack, he thought, you won’t know what’s hit you, the minute you step out that car…
The figure in the car remained still, unmoving. Stalemate. Sir Clive decided he’d make a show of climbing over the wall. Anything to get the boy into the open. He reached under the phone and yanked the mobile from it, pushed open the glass doors and walked towards the wall. There were a couple of places he could get a foothold. He pulled himself up and over awkwardly.
Jack watched him from across the street, once he’d disappeared over the wall he called the mobile.
“Follow the central path for 100m, until you reach the grave of Monsieur Guillotine. I’ll meet you there.” He said quickly, cutting Sir Clive off before he could begin an angry tirade. Jack wondered idly if he would understand the significance of the location, Monsieur Guillotine’s grave, the inventor of the guillotine, a brutally efficient execution method.
He climbed smoothly over the wall, dropped noiselessly to the ground. The bulky silhouette of Sir Clive was moving quickly along flag-stoned path ahead of him. He stood still, watching him for a moment, shoulders hunched against the cold night air, breath coming in thick wheezy rasps. The man was vulnerable, his team dispatched. For one unsettling moment Jack felt the urge to let him be, to walk away. Then the memory of his father, killed without so much as a second thought. Anger within him. He ran silently towards Sir Clive.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. Sir Clive stood still, wondering how long it would be before Michaels and his team vaulted over the wall. Jack approached cautiously, pressed his gun into the thick cashmere of Sir Clive’s coat.
“Slowly, very slowly, take out your gun and place it on the ground behind you,” Sir Clive snorted. Michaels really was testing his patience with this one. Reluctantly he withdrew his revolver from the shoulder holster and dropped it on the ground. Jack stepped forward and picked it up, lobbed it into the darkness. It landed with a clatter.