Paris had other ideas. He had not been there two weeks before the city took him over, seducing him with its bars and bordellos, its galleries and cafes. By day he attended theology class. By night he chatted to streetwalkers, to the small-time crooks who gathered in Rue Mouffetarde, the chancers, the students, the bourgeois intellectuals who fancied a walk on the wild side. It was here that he began to make money, small amounts at first, translation services for illegal Chinese immigrants, interpreting for local businessmen. A bit of extra pocket money, cash in hand. He liked the feel of it, a new sensation. The more he made, the further he felt from the poverty of his childhood.
He shook his head as if trying to clear the reminiscence. Memories, good and bad, came flooding back if you opened the door even a crack. There was work to do, no time for idling. He walked over to the window, glancing at the traffic streaming down Park Lane and checked his phone. A message from his source at MI6. Target at Addenbrookes Hospital. The constant updates she provided were invaluable. So much better than that useless bunch of ex-soldiers and the disgraced doctor he had put together for this mission.
14
For the second time in two days, Jack awoke not knowing where he was. This time the room looked less like a hospital ward, more like a prison cell. Unforgiving grey walls. No clock and no natural light. He jerked upwards, and cold metal cuffs cut painfully into his wrists, rattling against the wire bed frame. Two lines of stitches below his stomach, crossing at the centre. A dull ache under the skin, thread pulling painfully as he moved. The door swung open.
“Good evening, Mr. Hartman,” Sir Clive strode across the room, quickly unfastening one set of handcuffs. He’d seen enough footage of Jack fighting to step smartly back once he’d done so, but still proffered his right hand in greeting. Jack looked at him like he was mad. Where was he, and more to the point, where was Amanda?
“The girl I was with, her friend, what did you do to them? I swear if you’ve so much as touched her…” A vein in his forehead bulged.
“No need to worry, Mr. Hartman. You’re with the good guys. MI6. They’re being debriefed at the moment. A female officer is handling it. No cause for concern. Very promising surgeon, your lady friend. Great job under difficult circumstances.” He gestured vaguely at the stitching. Jack breathed loudly through his nose.
“Now, am I safe to unlock you? You’re not going to attempt one of your karate style attacks are you?” Sir Clive said this jokingly, keeping half an eye on the boy. He was reasonably confident he could handle him in a fight, but there was no point taking any chances. Jack relaxed a fraction. Sir Clive unlocked the cuffs, watching him warily as he rubbed his wrists.
“You and I are going to have a little chat, Jack. Not here. Walls have ears and all that. There’s a restaurant round the corner that’ll do fine. I expect you’re starving. Here,” he flung a suit and fresh shirt at Jack. “Try not to bleed on it, we don’t have a limitless budget.”
Was that a joke? Jack thought. The man’s attempt at familiarity grated.
“I’m not going anywhere till I’ve seen Amanda, I want proof she’s ok.” He said.
“I thought you might say that. We’ll call in at the debriefing room. Give you a chance to say hello. Come along now.”
Jack followed, pulling on the clothes gingerly, trying not to wince at the pain in his belly. He’d been bandaged up, and they must have pumped him full of painkillers. Sir Clive rapped his knuckles on an anonymous looking door. Amanda appeared, “Jack!” she hugged him close. Sir Clive looked bemused.
“You alright?” Jack asked. He could see she’d been crying.
“Fine. No thanks to Mr. wave-a-gun-in-your-face,” she said, pointing at Sir Clive. He raised his eyebrows. “Oh come now, I think that’s a little unfair. It was hardly the time for explanations. And I let you and your friend have a ride in my helicopter.” Jack turned towards him, looked at him coldly.
“Steady Jack,” Sir Clive said evenly. As close to a threat as he needed to get. His body language said he was ready to fight, perfectly balanced, shoulders back, arms hanging loosely by his sides.
“All I did was point a gun gently in their direction. A little encouragement to get them moving. There was no time for explanations. We weren’t the only ones after you, as I’m sure you’re fully aware.” He added. Jack stepped down, turning his attention to Amanda.
“I’m sorry about this. About all of this. I should never have got you involved. Should’ve gone home.” Amanda shrugged.
“Don’t be silly.”
“A-hem,” Sir Clive cleared his throat noisily. “I hate to break up this touching scene but I’d really like to get a move on. We should be finished with both of you in a few hours.” What was it with young people today and their insistence on public displays of affection? So very American, he thought derisively.
Amanda ignored Sir Clive and hugged Jack, kissing him briefly on the lips. “Doesn’t hurt too much does it?” she said, her hand hovering over the stitches.
“It’s fine. Look I better go with old bog brush hair. We’ll catch up later.”
15
Jack followed Sir Clive to the car park, a vast galleried space beneath the main building. He opened the door of a jet black Range Rover. Jack was grateful they weren’t going far on foot, though he’d never have admitted the pain walking caused him to someone like Sir Clive.
“You know the biggest threat facing the world today, Jack?” Sir Clive said, turning the key and starting the engine.
“Crazy pharmaceutical companies carrying out bizarre tests on innocent members of the public?” Jack answered. Sir Clive laughed, pleased to see the boy had retained his sense of humour. No mean feat given the stresses he had been subject to in the last 24 hours.
“Well for a start Jack, I’m the last person you’d be able to convince that any member of the public is actually innocent, and as for the drug trial…” He paused, pulling up beside the security guard’s booth and showing his pass. “You might find it hard to believe but that trial was actually part of the solution, not part of the problem.”
Sir Clive accelerated out of the car park and onto the main road, following the one-way system round to Vauxhall bridge. Jack didn’t say anything. He was tired. In no mood for a game of conversational cat and mouse.
“Curry alright?” Sir Clive asked, heading down Horseferry road, toward the network of narrow streets and squares between Parliament and Victoria Street. He liked to eat in that part of town. Very quiet in the evenings. The restaurants there seemed to do most of their business at lunchtime. All-you-can-eat buffets for the money-conscious civil servants swarming through nearby offices.
He pulled up outside the Golden Tandoori. A suitably shabby looking place. Chose a table at the back with a view of the restaurant and passed Jack a dog-eared menu. There was enough food stuck to the pages to give you a clear idea of which dish to choose. Or which dish not to choose, Jack thought.
“I’ll have the madras, hot as you can, please, waiter,” Sir Clive said.
“Lamb tandoori,” Jack said. “And a korma, some curried aubergine too. Naan bread would be good. And a beer. Large. Onion bharji, double portion of rice.” He felt hungry enough to tackle the entire menu, but thought it best to show a little restraint.