“Whatever dad.”
Archie watched through the window as Jack headed down the road, away from the house. He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to leave the safety of his son to the spooks in MI6. He knew from bitter experience half of them couldn’t even shoot straight. Had a bullet lodged in his shoulder that still gave him the occasional pain from an op against the IRA he’d worked on with them in the 80s.
He reached into the cupboard he’d taken the watch from, pulled out a small leather briefcase, opened it up, flicked up the screen and waited for the signal. It was an old piece of kit, a relic from the cold war. He’d swiped it from a warehouse as a souvenir before he was discharged, played around with it, changed the battery, made a few alterations. It worked ok but wouldn’t have a range of more than a couple of hundred miles. No, he wasn’t leaving Jack in the hands of MI6. He’d follow him, but at a discreet distance. He wasn’t going to lose a second son.
20
Jack swallowed the last gulp of tea. He hadn’t really thought about how to put this.
“I’m not in trouble. Not exactly, I mean it’s something I can walk away from.” He was aware of his dad’s eyes burrowing into him; the haziness of his gaze had been replaced with a steely concentration. An expression Jack did not recognise.
“The government wants me to do something for them. It’ll sound ridiculous if I try and explain it, but basically it’s an exchange, a small computer programme they want me to hand over.”
“Who to?” His dad said quickly.
“Um, don’t know. That’s what they want to find out.”
“Don’t do it.” His dad replied flatly.
He was surprised by the forcefulness of his father’s reaction. The intensity of the expression on his face. More than that, he was surprised at how easily the bumbling, alcohol-soaked persona had fallen away.
Jack frowned, “that’s it?” he said. “I haven’t even explained what this is all about…” His dad held up his hand, placed a finger over his lips.
“You don’t have to. You’ve told me enough. The people who’ve asked you to do this are sending you in blind, either because they don’t want you to know who you’re dealing with, or because they don’t actually know. You asked for my advice so I’m telling you. Don’t work on those terms. One thing you learn pretty quick in the army, never work with lying bastards or idiots. Both are liable to get you killed.”
Jack bit his lip and looked away. Were things really that simple? His dad had made a career out of giving up and walking away, why should he expect anything different in the advice he offered?
“Look,” his dad said. “You’re not convinced. I’m not going to try and persuade you and I’m not going to ask you why you’re doing this, or how you got into it. But I will say this, if you’re going to go through with it, keep your eyes and ears wide open. Whatever is said, assume the opposite could also apply, whatever they ask you to do, make sure you have your own exit strategy. Where is this going to happen, UK or overseas?”
“UK. Tomorrow evening.”
“Where?”
“Cambridge, not sure yet.”
“Want me there?” Jack raised his eyebrows, thrown off balance. “No, don’t think so. Should be fine.” He said at last. His dad looked unconvinced.
“What kind of kit are they giving you?”
“I don’t know, nothing. There’ll be other people there.” He said weakly. His dad shook his head.
“This stinks Jack. You know more about it than I do but to me it stinks.” He scratched at his tangle of grey hair, “let me just say this, whatever you’ve got yourself caught up in, you need to decide where your priorities lie. Don’t step up to a challenge for the sake of it, to see if you can dodge bullets, don’t do it unless you know exactly what you’re letting yourself in for.”
Jack nodded. For a man on his third beer of the morning who looked like he’d selected his clothes by running at his neighbour’s washing line with his arms outstretched, his father made a certain amount of sense.
“Thanks, I’ll think on it,” he said and got up slowly, nodding; his dad waved him away.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, reaching for another swig of beer. “Oh, one more thing Jack, before you go.” Jack turned to face him, he had opened the cupboard and was ferreting about, pulling clothes from the shelves and letting them land in an untidy pile on the floor.
“Here it is, knew I’d put it somewhere safe,” he said at last, handing Jack a battered Omega diver’s watch, the face scratched, the metal strap scuffed. Jack looked at it uncertainly.
“My birthday’s in May dad, and there’s really no need.”
“It’s not for your birthday, it’s for luck,” his father said, eyes gleaming with something stronger than booze, hands pulling at Jack’s wrist, undoing the strap of his cheap Casio, yanking it off, adjusting the Omega and fastening it in place. Jack winced, surprised at the strength that flowed from his father’s hands, unnerved by the intensity of his expression.
“Promise me you won’t take it off,” he said. Jack could feel his wrist beginning to go numb, his father’s grip tightening.
“Promise me.”
“Alright, alright.” Jack said at last. Archie released his grip, and smiled into the distance as Jack rubbed his arm, tried to get the blood flowing again.
“That chunk of metal has seen more action than most soldiers manage in an entire career,” he said proudly. “Think of it as a talisman. Like the ring they have to protect in that Harry Potter film.” Jack couldn’t help but smile, no point in correcting him.
“Whatever, dad.”
Archie watched through the window as Jack headed down the road, away from the house. He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to leave the safety of his son to the spooks in MI6. He knew from bitter experience half of them couldn’t even shoot straight. Had a bullet lodged in his shoulder that still gave him the occasional pain from an op against the IRA he’d worked on with them in the 80s.
He reached into the cupboard he’d taken the watch from, pulled out a small leather briefcase, opened it up, flicked up the screen and waited for the signal. It was an old piece of kit, a relic from the cold war. He’d swiped it from a warehouse as a souvenir before he was discharged, played around with it, changed the battery, made a few alterations. It worked ok but wouldn’t have a range of more than a couple of hundred miles. No, he wasn’t leaving Jack in the hands of MI6. He’d follow him, but at a discreet distance. He wasn’t going to lose a second son.
21
Monsieur Blanc sat at his corner table in the Wolseley. The restaurant was reputed to serve the best breakfast in London. So far he had sampled a glutinous, salty, mixture which tasted like oat-based wallpaper paste and a plate of spiced sausage, which he preferred. He was about to tuck into Eggs Benedict when he noticed a nervous looking creature making her way hesitantly past the army of waiters, uncomfortable in these plush surroundings.
By contrast Monsieur Blanc felt perfectly at home in the high-ceilinged room, with its wood-panelled walls and black and white marble floor was similar to the atrium at his chateau in the south of France.
“Bonjour ma très Chère,” he said, standing up to greet her, offering his most sincere smile. She nodded, casting a quick glance about her, appearing to all intents and purposes thoroughly embarrassed. Mary Dalkeith was not trained as a field operative and had no natural instinct for deception, which was why Sir Clive thought she would be perfect to leak information to Monsieur Blanc. Her awkwardness would be taken for fear, her discomfort for guilt.