Monsieur Blanc knew enough about international politics to suspect the proposal was not quite as straightforward as it seemed, that he might be used in some large scale counter-espionage operation, but if the money was good then so be it. It would not be the first time he had been employed at arms length by a government security agency. It was likely to be the last. And the money was good. Very good. That feeling he had known as a young man when he first started working in Paris, the sense of independence, of personal authority that came with the thick wad of notes in his wallet, still held him in thrall.
Had he been careful enough? He had known Clement for many years, although a tyrant, in business he was straightforward to deal with. He paid on time and was easier to work with than many of the petty despots and South American drug dealers Monsieur Blanc also sold to. But he had never crossed him. Never sold him a dud. The weapons he shipped were reliable, competitively priced. This was a new technology. And it was the American’s suggestion he sell to Nbotou. Monsieur Blanc’s mind was racing. Why Nbotou? Was he being set up? Another arms dealer attempting to hang him out to dry? No, it was too complex an operation. Too many other people involved. This was something bigger.
He cast a glance over his shoulder at the boy, sleeping off the effects of his hysteria. Something about him made Monsieur Blanc uneasy. The way his head had fallen forward, angled to one side, eyes shut. The perfect position from which to listen to any conversation in the cockpit. He shook his head. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Still, there was no harm in being prepared, he thought to himself as he unbuckled his belt and rolled it into a ball. He replaced it with one of his top selling items. A light-weight canvas belt with concealed pockets on the inside. They contained a small amount of plastic explosive, several ounces of gold and a radio transmitter that, once activated, would send a coded signal relaying his precise location to a bank of computers at an Israeli security firm. In their sales material they guaranteed an armed response to any location in the world within 24 hours. It was the only insurance scheme Monsieur Blanc subscribed to and he’d never had to make a claim. He hoped he wouldn’t have to when they arrived in the Congo.
33
Jack’s father checked his rear-view mirror. He was certain there was someone on his tail, had been since he left the Cambridge airfield. Not the black Astra, but a blue Ford, staying back then creeping closer. Only one plane had left the airstrip that night and he had taken down the registration number from the tail. He wanted to go home, research as quickly as he could where it was headed, check the flight plan. But with the Ford following close behind he decided against it. No point leading them, whoever they were, to his front door.
Instead he made his way to central London, driving hard down the motorway. There was no traffic, no police about either. He put his foot down; still the lights of the car remained close. A busy Internet cafe open 24 hours on the Edgware road would do. He pulled up and parked on a side street, walking towards it then doubling back on himself, heading into the reception of a seedy looking hotel with bright lights above the doorway. He was annoyed at himself for not bringing a change of clothes. The easiest way to throw someone off your tail. He had been out of the game too long.
The hotel had another exit, via its late night piano bar. He walked cautiously through it. A depressing sight as ever you could see at two in morning. Middle-aged businessmen buying cheap Champagne for whichever call girl the Escort agencies had sent them. The women pulling their faces into unconvincing smiles, the men flushed and leery, safe in the knowledge they wouldn’t need to impress this one in bed.
On the street again. Outside a Subway, one of the new sandwich shops that had appeared all over the city like a rash. He stepped inside and ordered something called a 12 Inch Sub. Bacon, egg, lettuce, chillies, chicken, tomatoes and whatever the hell else they put in there. Less of a sandwich, more like what you’d get if you set off a bomb in a supermarket then wiped the floor with a piece of soggy bread. The bacon wasn’t even freshly fried, he thought with disgust as he chewed it.
Another glace up and down the street. People seated in some of the cafes, sipping espressos, despite the late hour. Minicab drivers stopped for a quick break. A shot of caffeine to keep their eyes on the road. And there was a steady stream of traffic. He looked about for a blue Ford. Couldn’t see one, but they might have switched cars by now.
He threw the sandwich away. Crossed the road, into the Internet cafe. Past the Chinese students playing online war games. One of the booths near the back had a clear view of the room. The best position. He keyed in the code he’d been given at the desk and waited for the computer to boot up. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to find the destination the flight was headed to but he could at least find out who owned the plane. He tapped away at the keyboard, plane registration numbers, relevant databases, UK and US.
The records were posted on the Civil Aviation Authority’s site. A Lear, owned by an organisation calling themselves Aviation Corps Ltd. A US-based private charter company. He hadn’t heard of them, tried a random search on Google, which pulled up a couple of archived articles from the Financial Times. They were owned by another company, Defence Analytics. More searching. He scrolled down the page, another article, business pages of the New York Times. Defence Analytics were an offshoot of Centurion.
Now he was getting somewhere. He knew the name well enough. Everybody with military experience had heard of them. As far as he remembered, two of his former SAS colleagues had carried out work for them. They were less than impressed by the half-trained trigger-happy goons they’d been asked to lead and discipline. Rumour had it Centurion weren’t too thorough in checking the background of the ground troops they employed. Soldiers busted out of the army for insubordination, men with criminal records for firearms offences, substance misuse. The list went on.
Archie took out his mobile and dialled the number for Marshall Airfield.
“Hello, could I speak to the shift manager please,” he said, his accent changed, refined, his voice low and close to the phone.
“Certainly Sir, can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Centurion,” he announced confidently, not deigning to give his name. The receptionist pressed some buttons, the sound of ringing down the line. A male voice answered.
“Richard Short Duty Manager speaking. How can I help?”
“Oh hello, there’s been a delay with the delivery we needed to get to Flight L421AC. Can you let them know we’ll be there in the next hour?”
He heard fingers tapping frantically on a keyboard. “Afraid not Sir. They took off at 10pm. Next stop Burundi, Bujumbura airport.” Archie was surprised. Central Africa, a country bordered by Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. He wondered why on earth his son was being taken there, or if that was just a cover and they were headed to a private airstrip. He had some experience of the region. Couldn’t imagine there being a private airstrip nearby where a Lear jet could land.
“Right. Oh dear. Well thanks for letting me know. Looks like it’ll have to be DHL.”
Archie flipped the phone shut, his fingers already searching for flights to the Burundi. Brussels Air, direct to Bujumbura from Heathrow. He could drive straight to the airport. Leave the car there and buy whatever clothes he needed. Any extra equipment could be purchased when he arrived in Africa. Passport. He checked himself. Had to go home and get the passport first.