“You don’t want to attempt to take it now?” His assistant asked once they were airborne. He had shrugged in that Gallic way he picked up during his time in Paris.
“I don’t know where to extract it from, and this isn’t my plane,” he replied. The assistant had looked puzzled. “The mess, think of the mess,” Monsieur Blanc said, gesturing around him. The jet Centurion had provided was high spec. A top of the range Lear complete with thick carpet and comfy leather seats. Not the sort of environment in which to perform impromptu and messy surgery with a flick knife and spoon. The assistant had nodded.
“I’ll check he’s secured tightly. Don’t want him waking up and throwing a fit.” He said, heading to the rear of the plane where Jack was gaffer-taped to a luggage rack.
The sedatives had worked through Jack’s body quickly. They might have kept a smaller man under for several hours but Jack could already feel the grogginess subsiding. He’d opened his eyes a fraction. Listened to the sounds that surrounded him, the low rumble of the jet engines, the rush of the air conditioning in the cabin. Two large black boots on the floor in front of him. A hand roughly grabbed his hair and tilted his head back, then checked the tape held him securely.
The black boots retreated. “He’ll be fine. No signs of life. Other than a pulse.” Jack wondered where they going. Try as he might he couldn’t move his hands. The tape held him tight. And his stomach ached from where the device had been re-inserted into him. It was close to the surface, but sitting hunched over on the floor meant it dug deep into him. And the local anaesthetic was wearing off. He wondered if Sir Clive was tracking the flight. Somehow he doubted it. For whatever reason, the man had let him be taken. An awful realisation was forming in Jack’s mind. Not the fact that they would try and forcibly remove the device when they landed, or the imminent danger he would face from the people who had abducted him once he had taken the device. No, it was the thought that he should have listened to his father after all. And the old man would never let him forget it.
30
“Everything go according to plan?” Harvey Newman asked into his cell phone, pacing up and down the length of his office. He was feeling frustrated after the meeting with the Secretary of State. It had not gone well. She was threatening to cancel the order; there were whispers of cuts in the defence budget. Heavy hints that the administration was less than happy at the blank cheques they were being asked to write to protect what firms like Centurion referred to obliquely as national security.
She was impressed with the capabilities of the weapon though, that much was clear. And if the American government was thinking of cancelling its multi-billion dollar contract Harvey had suggested he might need to recoup costs by selling to a regime that had less respect for democracy than the good old US of A. Hidden threats, intimations. The usual boardroom bullshit. Always made him tetchy. Plus he was keen to get an update from Sir Clive about the tenth device. They needed to get the full set to Nbotou, needed the excuse to invade.
Sir Clive was thinking over Harvey’s question. Had things gone to plan? Not exactly, but they were still on track, no reason to panic. Yet.
“I suppose it depends whose plan you mean,” he’d replied, “Monsieur Blanc’s on his way to the Congo with the ten devices, only problem is one of them is still in the boy.”
“No shit.” Harvey had replied.
“And there’s a body count of two mercenaries and one disgraced Moroccan doctor in a Cambridge College which is going to take a hell of lot of explaining.” Sir Clive said, realising it was unlikely he’d be invited back to any formal dinners at King’s for the foreseeable future.
“What went down?” Harvey asked.
“The doctor got cold feet and turned on Monsieur Blanc. Didn’t trust him to pay up. He’s no soldier and I suppose the mission got too much for him. Monsieur Blanc ended up drugging the boy and bundling him into a plane.”
“Wonder how our friend Clement will react.” Harvey said under his breath.
“If Monsieur Blanc can’t remove the device during the flight I suspect the general will have no qualms about cutting it out of the boy himself. Either that or he’ll get one of his child soldiers to do it.”
“Not a happy ending for the kid.” Harvey replied. Sir Clive gritted his teeth, “no, unfortunately not. But the thing we need to concern ourselves with now is the practicalities of taking over Nbotou’s operation. As soon Monsieur Blanc meets with Nbotou we’ll have all the excuse we need to take him out.”
“How are you going to play it with the government ministers?” Harvey asked. It sounded like he was chewing something, a pen lid, something that clicked against his teeth. Sir Clive never ceased to be amazed at the man’s lack of common courtesy.
“I’ll leave it a few hours, then call an emergency meeting. Let them know intelligence has come to light about a perceived threat to the UK’s cyber security. Suggest we deal with that threat sooner rather later, don’t want to let it fester.”
“That all you need to say?” Harvey said, his voice disbelieving. “Sometimes less is more, Mr. Newman. Besides, we’re not asking them to sanction the invasion of an entire country, engage the nation’s army in a long and protracted war with no clear exit strategy. All we want is permission to send a small group of highly trained men into an area of the Congo so we can take out a ruthless and thoroughly unpleasant man. A man who, it appears from our intelligence, has a long term plan to undermine the cyber security of the United Kingdom.”
“Hmm,” was all Harvey could say in reply. He was impressed with Sir Clive’s confidence. A sensation so rare he didn’t have any words to describe how he felt.
“Well, I’m about to leave for the airport now with the senior strategy team. Once you’ve got the go-ahead from the suits give me a call. We’re flying in Big Bird so we need…”
“You’re flying in what?” Sir Clive couldn’t help but interrupt.
“Big Bird, the company 747. I leant the Lear to Monsieur Blanc. Means we need to land at a major airport. I’ve got some hardware I want to show you. The prototype weapons. Be glad to let your boys get tooled up and fire off a couple of rounds into the Congo. Sort of like a live field test. See how they work in a combat situation.”
“We’ll see.” Sir Clive said, with an appropriate degree of circumspection. He wasn’t about to send a highly specialised and experienced team into a covert op with untested weapons. It was bad enough having the man interfere with his strategy for dealing with Nbotou. He half-expected him to turn up with a troop of trigger-happy contract soldiers on an hourly rate.
31
Clement wrapped a plaster round his thumb, the cut was deep and it was hard to stem the flow of blood. The girl was wild, she had fought like a tiger, bitten hard even after Uko’s attempt to sedate her. He had left her tied to the bed, the ugly welts his belt had left on her arms and legs glowing deep purple again the skin. Didn’t bother to lock the door. He was not finished with her yet.
“Come Sir, have some food.” Uko called out from the bottom of the stairs, a smile on his lips and an open bottle of beer in his hand. Clement nodded and walked slowly towards him, his pistol fastened in its holster by his side. He seldom used it. He preferred the sheathed machete that hung carelessly over his shoulder. Much better for delivering the brutal justice he needed to keep control over the soldiers. He took the beer from Uko and stepped outside, pouring a small amount onto the ground, a salve for his ancestors, before draining the rest of the bottle in two swallows. Uko handed him another.