“Come with me”, he hissed into Jack’s ear, jerking him up by the arm, pressing the spike into his kidney. He marched him along the corridor. Doors had started to open, students appearing in the corridor.
“It’s alright, everything under control, just a couple of fireworks. Chinese New Year. Nothing to worry about.” Monsieur Blanc said as he walked him briskly down the stairs, across Second Court and over the bridge.
Jack kept checking over his shoulder. No intervention from Sir Clive’s team. Were they watching him to see what happened, about make their move? Or were they going to let him be led away by the fat Chinaman? Jack could feel the point of the blade cutting into his side. He could tell from the way the man held it he knew exactly how to use it. Jack might have a chance if he could get a few centimetres between him and the steel but until then he’d have to grin and bear it.
“This way,” the man led him through the iron gates at the rear of the College. A Mercedes people carrier with blacked out windows was waiting at the side of the road. Where the hell was Sir Clive’s team? He hadn’t agreed to let himself be driven off wherever these guys fancied.
Now or never, Jack thought, looking at the cars on the busy road, thinking they would give him some cover if he could get to the other side. A sharp stinging pain in his neck. Vision blurred, legs to jelly. Monsieur Blanc caught him as he collapsed downwards, then he replaced the syringe in his pocket and tried to bundle the boy into the van.
“Problem?” The driver asked over his shoulder.
“You could say that.” Monsieur Blanc replied, out of breath. “We have the tenth device but unfortunately it comes in this rather inconvenient package.” He gestured at the body. The driver jumped out to help him.
“What you want to do?” He asked, surveying the six-foot-five blond-haired figure lying crumpled and unconscious, ankles dangling out the side door. Monsieur Blanc shrugged.
“Take him with us, no time for anything else. Give me a hand, would you, Gustav.”
Through the window of a hired Ford Focus on the other side of the road, Jack’s dad watched the two men bundle his son into the car. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. As much to stop them shaking as in anger. He’d seen them take his son, had no opportunity to intervene. He’d also noticed the standard issue MI6 car on the other side of the road. A Vauxhall Astra, windows blacked out, but he was pretty sure there were MI6 surveillance officers inside, ready to follow the Mercedes.
He banged his fists on the steering wheel. How had his son got mixed up in this? Why hadn’t he seen it coming, tried harder to talk him out of it? In his jacket pocket was a hipflask. He reached for it and took a swig of whisky, then threw it down on the floor in disgust. Even now he seemed intent on sabotaging his own efforts at rescue.
28
Sir Clive had watched the video footage on the live feed back in the control room at MI6. Events had taken an unexpected turn, but he refused the team permission to move in and rescue the boy. We need to see where they’re going with this, we have to find out who the buyer is for the devices. He’d hissed into the radio mic. The men on the scene had held back reluctantly.
He knew full well where Monsieur Blanc was headed. Knew about the private plane he had stationed at an airfield just outside Cambridge, knew exactly where that plane was going, and knew that he needed to let the man deliver all ten devices to Clement Nbotou in whatever form he could. If Clement didn’t buy the devices, there’d be no excuse to send in a covert force to take him out. No excuse to secure control of the region under the general’s command. Take over the coltan mines for his friends at Centurion. He checked himself. Friend wasn’t quite the right word, unless you wanted to argue that friendship could be bought.
Harvey Newman had approached him at an arms fair in Houston a couple of years ago. Sir Clive had always found the term fair oddly inappropriate. The annual sales conferences were where the defence industry got together and exhibited their latest weapon technology, setting out stalls and attempting to persuade governments, despots and paranoid billionaires that they really couldn’t do without the latest laser-guided Teflon-coated armour-piercing missile. A business suit and a white-toothed smile from the salesmen as they explained how to maximise lethal force and non-civilian fallout.
Sir Clive was there on business. Not buying, just keeping his eye on the market. A lot of the technology MI6 used they developed themselves, but it was a good place to get ideas, see what other products were out there. It was also useful to see who else was shopping.
He was surprised when a man approached him directly, introduced himself as Harvey Newman. Even more surprised when the man revealed he knew his name. I won’t bullshit you, Sir Clive, I know you’re a busy man. Sir Clive wasn’t in disguise, but then again he wasn’t exactly wearing a name badge either, and he’d flown in on a passport with a different name. His first reaction had been to scan the room, see if he was being set up, check for the exit points and work out how he could get out of there. Harvey caught the discreet glance and understood its meaning.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly, handing over his business card. “I’m here on business. My company has a stall over on the other side of the room.” Sir Clive read the card, CENTURION, Strategy, Defence and Integrated Weapon Systems. He knew the name, a big player in the American defence industry. Held half the contracts with the US government to provide security for oil companies in Iraq. They’d also managed to avoid any formal investigations into their soldiers, despite allegations some of them were distinctly trigger happy.
“And I’m not trying to sell you anything either,” Harvey added, a broad grin on his suntanned face. “What I would like to do is buy you a coffee, chat a little about what my company does, see if there’s anything that might interest you in the way we work,” he didn’t give much away, but he hoped the Englishman had got the idea there might be something in this for him. Sir Clive nodded. He noted the casual way the man said my company, as if ownership of a multi-billion dollar corporation was something easily achieved, easily maintained. He checked his watch, he had a couple of hours to kill before he had to get to the airport for his flight home, and he certainly knew of the man by reputation. “Why not?” He replied.
Harvey had done his homework before he approached Sir Clive. He knew his abrupt personality had made him enough enemies in the British Secret Service to prevent him from ever being promoted to the top job, Director General, and he knew the salary the man was paid was a pittance compared with what he could get at a private security firm. He also knew he was a resourceful and capable project planner, ruthless when he needed to be, but above all creative in his thinking. Able to anticipate problems and devise a strategy to resolve them before they got out of hand, before others were even aware there was a problem.
Every man had his price, and the sums of money Centurion paid its select group of board members annually were likely to be beyond anything Sir Clive would earn over an entire career in the British Secret Service. But Harvey knew that wouldn’t be enough, the man was no mercenary or he’d have quit the Service and taken his expertise elsewhere long ago. Money might be a factor, but it was no deal breaker. No, he would have to appeal to his wider sensibilities, his vanity, the kick he got from doing a difficult and highly pressurised job to the best of his abilities. Cash was just the sugar coating.