“Fantastic, thank you. Nothing like flying in your own 747.” Harvey put the phone down and climbed out of the car, distracted by a silhouette that appeared out of the mist. A ghostly figure dressed in black.
“Good morning Sir, tea and a selection of pastries are available in the drawing room.” Harvey raised his eyebrows, not quite believing the house came with a real live butler.
“Thank you,” he said, resisting the temptation to call the man Jeeves. “You got any coffee?”
“I am sure we can rustle something up, Sir. When you’re ready please follow me into the entrance hall. You’ll be occupying the east wing. I trust you’ll find the accommodation more than capacious.”
The man turned and walked back towards the house. Harvey grinned at Bob, “More than capacious. We gotta get one of those for the L.A offices. What a prize.” Bob raised his eyebrows, “I bet he types more quickly than your secretary,” he said under his breath.
36
The same light that fell on the windows of Batley Hall filtered through the tall grimy windows of the old brick works in Bow, east London. It formed a chequered pattern on the dusty floor. The place had been earmarked for re-development. Luxury flats to rise out of the ashes of the industrial past.
Archie Hartman wasn’t aware of any of that. He was only aware of the greyish black forms he could see through the hood pulled tightly around his neck, the hand that jerked his arm roughly, pulling him to one side of the room. A foot pressed into the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.
The three men had been good. Better than good. Expert. He hadn’t even seen them coming. The first he’d know about it was a crack on the back of his head. Knocked him to the floor. He’d almost blacked out. Almost, but not quite. Twenty years ago he might have had a chance. Could have spun out the way. Got to his feet. Got away. The second hit meant he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d come to in the claustrophobic heat of a car boot. Head thumping hammer on pipe and trussed up so tight he could barely move. He could smell exhaust fumes, petrol. They weren’t moving fast and they had to stop every minute or so. Must be in London, making their way through traffic, waiting at lights.
They’d pulled over after an hour, opened the boot and yanked him out. None of them spoke. Didn’t ask his name, didn’t threaten him. Spooks through and through, he thought. So different from regular army. As if they were afraid their power might diminish if they struck up a conversation, appeared more human.
Archie had never been like that. He’d always looked a man in the eye. Offered him a final cigarette. His power was that he didn’t give a damn. Not now, not ever. No fear and no regret. Jack was the same, he knew that much, recognised it in him when he was growing up.
He’d kicked against the cramped confines of the car boot as hard as he could. Kicked until he was all used up, till his rage was spent, transferred in dents and distortions to the metal that held him in. His captors had simply pulled over into a quiet side street and waited till he wore himself out. The fate he had dished out to so many others had finally caught up with him. His demons in human form, casually dressed and standing behind him. Come to call him in. To account for the past. They pulled off his hood. He glanced behind him. They weren’t wearing masks. A sign they were confident he wouldn’t be around to recognise them. And they seemed so young. Just a group of friends off to a football match or pub.
He was reminded of Jack. The world he had got involved in. If he had a regret, it was that he hadn’t forced the boy to walk away when he had the chance. But there was nothing he could have done. Jack was too strong-willed, too eager to test himself. Always had been. Pushing himself twice as hard as everyone one else at football, academic work, the partying that had threatened to derail him as a teenager. As if he wanted to achieve enough for two. Make up for his brother not being there.
He remembered one of his colleagues at the army base in Italy telling him about the lad’s talent for fighting, a real cold-blooded ruthless streak mixed with perfect balance, razor sharp reflexes and tremendous strength. Archie had felt a peculiar mixture of pride and sorrow, the boy had got that from him, but he also had brains. A terrific intelligence inherited from his mother that Archie didn’t want him wasting.
As he knelt on the ground he felt the uncertainty, the fear for the boy that had plagued him, beginning to subside. Something else in its place. A reassurance, the knowledge he was well-equipped to deal with whatever life, or indeed the Security Services, decided to throw at him, far better than he himself would have been. He knew that somehow he’d find a way out, find his way home. He turned to face his executioners, an expression on his face they couldn’t understand. A confidence that didn’t need words or threats to make it real. An unsettling lack of fear. The officers unconsciously took a step back.
“Listen, I’m not going to try and dissuade you from what you’re about to do. Orders are orders and all that.” Archie said, “But you should be aware of something. If you pull that trigger a boy,” he checked himself, “a man, will come for you. Not for some time. A year, maybe more. But he’ll come for you and he’ll be so quick you won’t even see him, he’ll take you while you’re sleeping, while you’re on your way to work, off to meet your girlfriend for dinner.” He paused and looked each of them in the eye. “Pull that trigger and all three of you are dead men walking.”
There was no dramatic overtone to the man’s voice, no sense that he trying to scare them. He was matter of fact, calm and composed. So utterly confident in the face of death, that the three MI6 operatives couldn’t help but glance quickly at each other. Orders were orders and you followed them unquestioningly, but that didn’t mean there weren’t external consequences.
The officer holding the gun stepped forward and pressed the barrel against Archie’s forehead. “Enough,” he said, finger on the trigger, ready to dispatch the target. And then he made a mistake. He hesitated.
37
Final checks completed. Please prepare for landing. The pilot’s voice piped into the cabin. Monsieur Blanc adjusted his watch. Two hours ahead. It was a relatively short runway and the pilot would have to switch on reverse thrust almost as soon as he touched down.
Jack pushed himself back against the luggage rack as well he could. Felt like they’d been in the air for about 5 hours, but he had no clue which direction they had flown in.
A jolt as the plane hit the runway, a roar from the engines as reverse thrust kicked in. He’d never felt a deceleration like it. As if the plane had flown into a steel net that was stretched to the breaking point. The lights came on in the cabin, the plane had slowed, was taxiing forwards gingerly. Jack wondered where on God’s earth they’d landed.
Monsieur Blanc and his assistant were speaking to one another at the far end of the cabin, out of earshot. He wondered if they were deciding whether to cut the device out of him now or leave it for whomever they were meeting. One of the flight crew stepped toward him, somehow managing to avoid looking him in the eye. He busied himself with the door, attempting to pull the levers and push it outwards. It didn’t budge.
“Oi, shit face. Where are we?” Jack said, hoping it might get the man’s attention. He ignored him. “You with the door. Where have we landed? What’s going on? You do know it’s illegal to kidnap people yeah?”
The man managed to get the door open. Jack wondered if he was the pilot, and if so how he’d ended up running errands for someone like Monsieur Blanc. He had his back to him but Jack had seen him approach. He was pretty sure he could recognise him if he ever needed to.