“That was 200 metres at level 2?” Harvey asked, admiration in his voice. “Gave him quite a shock.”
“That’s nothing. Wait till you see this.” Bob replied. Target engaged, decreasing intensity to level 6. The voice on the recording continued, camera moving slowly towards the subject. The dull thud of rubber-soled boots on the sidewalk. Harvey could see the fear in the target’s face, he’d caught sight of what was approaching him, head twisting from side to side, lank white-boy dreads swinging with each movement like the tendrils of a jungle vine. Nah man, give it up man. Whatever it was I didn’t do it, I didn’t do shit, his voice was distant, pleading and pathetic. He dug deep in his pockets and threw a handful of scrunched up dollar bills towards the camera, s’all I got, s’all I got man, just take it. The voice choked by fear. Engaging target. The last words the man heard.
Clicks. The low humming sound, then the whoosh. His face, his hands, a bright crimson blister, searing white, a light too bright for the camera. A blank screen.
“Shit,” said Harvey, shaking his head. “Lethal that close, even when you reduce the intensity. What time’s the meeting with the Secretary of State?”
“9am, couple of hours time.”
“ We sure as fuck aren’t showing her this. You got the footage of tests you ran on the pigs and goats?”
“Already loaded into the system,” Bob replied, tapping the laptop. “Good work, we need to show them something, the amount of time it’s taking to fulfil the order. What did you do with the body?”
“Nothing,” Bob replied, “left it where it lay. Just like the other times. That was one of Mr. Clive’s more inspired suggestions, testing out new technology on low-lives and junkies.”
“It’s Sir Clive to you, Bob” Harvey replied, imitating the man’s plummy English tones. “Remember that time we forget to introduce him properly to the ambassador? Man, does he have a stick up his ass.” Bob allowed himself a smile, a rare thing.
“He’s coming on line at 8, before the meeting. We’ll have him linked up via secure satellite connection. In glorious technicolour.” He added dryly. Harvey nodded. Sir Clive was a valuable addition to the board, with political connections and access to intelligence even Centurion found hard to come by. He was expensive, but so far worth it. As long as his plan to secure the coltan mines in the Congo worked out.
23
Jack looked out of the train window, one London suburb merging into the next. His father’s words playing over and over in his head. A scratched record. This stinks Jack…you need to decide where your priorities lie. He’d gone against that, decided to go back to Sir Clive, allow MI6 to stitch the phoney device back into his abdomen. The numbness from the local anaesthetic was beginning to tingle at the edges, but they’d assured him it would last long enough to mean he felt no pain when it was cut out again.
“Don’t worry Jack, we’ll be with you every step of the way,” Sir Clive had said, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder, an expression close to pride in his eyes. The boy had stepped up to the mark, risen to the challenge. Sir Clive was surprised. He was also very relieved.
“I can’t promise you’ll come to no harm but I can promise we’ll do our damndest to prevent it. We’ll be in the next room, watching everything as it happens.” Jack had nodded, Sir Clive was convincing and he didn’t yet have the hard-won cynicism of his father.
They’d given him four cameras, told him to place one in each corner of the room, and a tiny pinhead camera, which he pushed into the lapel of his jacket. They’d sync them up on a live feed to a computer in the next room.
“If there’s even the slightest hint that they intend to take you out we’ll be there in a second. But we have to let them have a shot at stealing the device, let them think they’ve got away with it. We need to follow them, see where they lead us.”
He’d stepped away from his desk, moved towards the window, the view of the Thames.
“You’re doing an important thing, Jack, I hope you realise that,” he said, looking out over the river. “A serious step forward for Cyber Crime. For the safety of the UK against a potential attack.” Jack had nodded. Still not sure of his motivation, he was almost satisfied he had made the right choice. It was the danger that appealed to him, the chance to be tested. And somewhere at the back of his mind the unshakeable, irrational idea that Paul would have done the same thing. Jack wanted to see if he measured up.
The train pulled into Cambridge station. Jack eased himself out of his seat. It felt strange to be arriving in the university town without any luggage, without bags and suitcases he brought up at the start of each term, and for a very different purpose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two secret service men Sir Clive had instructed to stay with him. They did a good job of blending in amongst the tourists, didn’t have any of the military stiffness he’d expected. He hailed a cab outside the station. Normally he would never have taken one for the ten-minute journey to College, he was too frugal a student, but today was different. He had enough on his mind without worrying about whether the walk would upset the hastily stitched together wound in his side.
The roads were clear. The journey uneventful. A typically cloudy Cambridge sky above him. He made his way through King’s, the College the same as ever. Tourists taking photos of the Chapel. Students playing pool in the bar, laughing, drinking away the Sunday afternoon. He recognised a couple of them from his Computer Science class. Geeky guys but interesting to hang around with, full of facts, good on a pub quiz team. The normality of the life he no longer enjoyed called out to him. Like a dream that stayed with you when you woke. Forget it, he thought to himself, at least for now. Wait and see what the next twenty-four hours hold.
24
Human nature. The one thing no amount of careful planning and preparation can fully predict. Ahmed Seladin was seated in the back of a Mercedes people carrier listening to Monsieur Blanc’s instructions. Normally a careful, calm, if quietly calculating man, he had been driven to the edge of paranoia by lack of sleep and the constant unrelenting pressure to complete the mission. He was also beginning to doubt whether he would ever get away, whether Monsieur Blanc would pay him and let him fly back to Morocco or simply have him dispatched, throat slit and buried in some dark and damp woodland on the edge of Cambridge.
“Please Monsieur Blanc, take me through this again, just so I’m clear,” Ahmed said, a nervous smile on his lips. Monsieur Blanc raised his eyebrows, the Moroccan was beginning to trouble him. He’d had his doubts ever since he read the initial report on the man. It described in detail the rumours that buzzed around him when he was a surgeon, the accusations he had abused his position of trust with female patients. Monsieur Blanc did not approve, but he was singularly limited in the people he could recruit for the task. Although ruthless in business there were certain values he considered sacrosanct. The Catholic education drilled into him as a boy was not easily discarded.
Monsieur Blanc opened up the tourist map of Cambridge. “King’s College is here, the boy’s room is in third court, over here.” He pointed his stubby finger at the map. “He’ll be there this afternoon. If he isn’t there when we get there we wait. Once he arrives you remove the device. The car will meet us back here. We drive to a private airfield. As agreed we’ll move funds to your account once we’re in the air. We’ll drop you in Morocco.”