34
The MI6 field officer leant back in his chair; the interest he showed in the online game in the corner of his screen superficial. He was keeping an eye on Archie Hartman, but it was hard to see over the booths. No way of getting a look at his screen without drawing attention to himself. Never mind, he thought, tapping into the Internet cafe’s local network, he could easily access the web browser for that machine, see what the man had been looking at. He scanned the web addresses, flight numbers, newspaper articles, flights to Burundi. No time to waste, he called Sir Clive.
“Field Officer Edwards calling with an update.” He said quickly.
“Go ahead.” Sir Clive’s voice terse, authoritative. “Target researching destination of flight. Just bought a ticket to Burundi.”
Sir Clive was silent, chewing over the information. “He’s desperate, playing the odds, a guessing game,” he replied. “No way he could know what’s going on, where Jack is. He probably just worked it out from the registration of the plane. I take it he’s flying into Bujumbura?”
“He is.” Sir Clive ran a hand through his hair. Technically Bujumbura was the closest airport to Clement’s camp, but it was still some distance away, across the mighty lake Tanganyika, through the jungle. Was it just a lucky guess? Even if the man knew where he was going, and frankly Sir Clive doubted he had any real idea, he was still going on instinct, wanting to be as close to the danger his son might face as possible. And it would take over a week to get to the encampment by road. A dangerous journey through parts of the eastern Congo under the control of different warlords.
He checked the file Mary had managed to compile on Archie Hartman again. He was in his late fifties but the picture in the dossier was taken some time ago. It showed a powerfully built man in his mid thirties. He was standing in front of row of palm trees, grinning, arms carelessly draped over two bedraggled civilians who were a head shorter, white men with unshaven faces and tattered clothes. On the back of the photo the date and location were hand written in biro, a careful script. Nigeria, 1981, release of two hostages.
Sir Clive remembered hearing about the op. Two oil company workers taken and held for ransom. The Thatcher government had stormed in, ordered the SAS to retrieve them, protect British business interests and bring the boys back. The “boys” in this case were middle-aged men who looked like they could still lose a few pounds, even after they’d been held hostage for a month. He wondered what the body count had been on the mission. And just how professional the people who took the two white men had been. Money hungry mercenaries or villagers angry with a foreign company leaking oil and lighting gas flares on their hunting grounds?
He sighed. It didn’t matter. Orders were orders and no soldiers, not even those in the SAS, were paid to think. Maybe that’s how it should be. It was thinking that was getting Archie Hartman into all sorts of trouble, threatening the operation Sir Clive had so carefully organised. Should he let the deluded old fool pack his bags and head to the Congo, allow him to bumble about in search of his son? Or should he charge the field operative to carry out a Code 3? Despatch the target. Sir Clive flicked through the man’s file one more time. Decorated for bravery. Described as fearless and uncompromising by his senior officers, had fought in some of the most bloody conflicts of recent years. Too bad. This was no time for sentimentality. Not when the risks were this high. The man might prove more effective than he feared, might kick up a fuss, put the attack on Clement at risk, contact the press. He picked up the phone and called the field operative.
“Code 3. And be careful. He might be an old dog but he used to have a pretty nasty bite. Plenty of combat experience. You’ll need a team. Minimum of three. Oh and Edwards, try to make it as quick and painless as possible.” Old soldiers deserve some dignity in death, he thought grimly as he closed the file.
He was about to send the papers back to archive when his eye caught the initials scrawled in pencil on the back page, ‘T.G.R, legend!’. He mulled that over for a moment. It was common practice for Special Forces troops to take on nicknames, but he had never seen that one. It bothered him. He picked up his phone and called a desk officer at the M.O.D, an old timer.
“Evening Roberts, I’ve got a file here with T.G.R written on the back, the officer’s name was Hartman, Special Forces. Don’t suppose you know what it stands for?” There was brief pause, he expected Roberts to go away and do some research and get back to him in a couple of hours. He didn’t, replied straight away.
“The Reaper? The Grim Reaper? You’ve got his file?” Sir Clive didn’t respond. The nickname didn’t exactly fill him with optimism.
“T.G.R was a legend,” the desk officer continued enthusiastically, “went a little off the rails after that thing with his son, and was reprimanded a couple of times for excessive use of force, but if there was one man guaranteed to come out of tricky situation and leave a pile of bodies in his wake it was the Reaper. Is he back in action?”
“Not exactly, no,” Sir Clive replied before putting down the phone. A flicker of doubt crossing his mind, an unusual and unwelcome sensation.
35
Early morning mist hung close over the deer park. The weak February sun was unable to part the swirling clouds as they rolled across the valley, hiding the stately home from view. The estate belonged to the director of a large private bank, but he hardly ever used the place, preferring to work from his office in the Bahamas. He allowed high ranking officials from the British Government to make use of it when he wasn’t there, as a training base, a conference centre, a bolt-hole when things got a little tough in the Cabinet. Even left a skeleton staff in place to make sure they didn’t go hungry. Very considerate of him. But if you wanted a peerage you had to go the extra mile.
Today it was not government officials in sleek black Jaguars that sped up the mile long driveway, it was Harvey Newman and his coterie of advisors, strategists and planners. And they were not in Jaguars, they were in a convoy of Cadillac SRXs. Eight gas-hungry luxury jeeps that hogged the width of the drive and honked their horns at the deer that appeared through the mist.
“Where the hell are we?” Harvey asked without slowing down, the frightened animal skipping nimbly out of his path. Other deer in the nearby field turned their startled eyes on the cars. “Looks like we’re on fucking safari.”
The tarmac gave way to gravel that crunched under the tyres. As they rounded the final graceful curve of the driveway, even Harvey Newman couldn’t help but be impressed. Through the mist an Elizabethan sandstone house reared its stately head, imposing and elegant with tall mullioned glass windows glinting in the patchy light.
“Nice,” was all Harvey said. He was already on the phone, punching in Sir Clive’s number.
“We’ve arrived Sir Clive, mission control. About to set up camp. When do you think you’ll be here?”
Sir Clive was sitting in his office. He rubbed his eyes. Seven am. He hadn’t been to bed yet. Still no news from the field team he’d charged with taking out Jack’s father. He’d spent the rest of the night examining satellite feeds of the eastern Congo, pulling all the intelligence reports he could find on Clement Nbotou, preparing for the putsch. Monsieur Blanc’s flight would have landed by now. Nbotou would have the ten devices within the next hour or so. He’d convene an emergency meeting with the relevant ministers as soon as he could.
“I’ll be there by midday,” he replied. “I trust you had a good flight?”