“Well Jack, I’m afraid we have reached the end of the road for you,” Monsieur Blanc said, reaching forwards and cutting through the gaffer tape that bound him to the luggage rack, leaving the binding cord that held his wrists and ankles together. As soon as the last stretch of tape was cut he attempted to fling himself forwards, but his muscles, stiff and unmoved for the duration of the flight, protested with crippling camps. He fell forwards and landed at Monsieur Blanc’s feet, much to the man’s bemusement.
“Ten out of ten for effort, mon brave, ten out of ten. But I’m not sure where exactly you thought you were going.” He turned, “Gustav, give me a hand getting the boy down the stairs and into the jeep.”
Gustav hoisted Jack over his shoulder and headed through the door and down the steps, grunting with the effort. Banging Jack’s head on the doorway. A wave of heat hit them. Humid and unpleasant. At the edge of the runway, steam rose from the jungle. He dumped Jack unceremoniously on the tarmac and looked around. Three teenagers waited next to a small wooden cabin, AK-47s hung loosely over their arms. One of them was wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops instead of combat fatigues. Gustav, who had trained with the Russian army, shook his head at the sorry state they were. Jack strained his neck to see where he was. The tarmac was unbearably hot and burnt his cheek.
“You want me to cut out the device here?” Gustav said, pointing at Jack, one hand ready to unsheathe his hunting knife. Monsieur Blanc watched as the three boys drew closer, weapons pointing casually in their direction.
“At this precise moment in time I don’t want to do anything that will make those boys with guns nervous.”
Gustav nodded. He’d accompanied Monsieur Blanc on trips to Africa before, knew the kids were jumpy and likely to be high. The three boys stopped, the tallest one gesturing to the jeep. “In cah, get in cah.” He pointed his gun to make sure they got the message. Gustav bent down and picked Jack up. Slung him over his shoulder. Not an easy task given the size and weight of the man. And the fact that he kept trying to sink his teeth into the back of his neck.
Monsieur Blanc put his face close to Jack. “For what it’s worth I am sorry about this. That man who lost his mind in your rooms in Cambridge, he was a liability. When we come to take out the device I will try and make sure it is as painless as possible.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “tell me, you were a student at Cambridge weren’t you, would you recommend the University? I hope one day to complete the Theology studies I abandoned as a young man. Is it terribly expensive to secure a place there?”
Jack grunted as Gustav hoisted him into the rear of the jeep. Part of him wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but another part jumped at the chance to form some sort of connection with him, however sleight, anything to make him think twice about killing him.
“Interviews and exams. You can’t buy a place. Just have to work very hard.” Monsieur Blanc nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Jack. There’s always the American Ivy League, Yale and so on, but one has the distinct impression that if they accept someone like George Bush the school itself is not particularly discerning.”
The jeep bounced along the track, the boy driving it just about able to reach the pedals and see over the dashboard. His gun lay across the foot well. Gustav was seated next to him. He badly wanted to take control of the wheel, almost as much as he wanted to check the weapon’s safety catch was on.
Some parts of the forest had been cleared, pale brown mud showing underneath. Children and adults were digging at the dirt with their hands, washing it in small bowls. Jack also saw makeshift mines sunk into the ground, metal pipes awash with watery mud as well-practised fingers sifted through it.
“What are they doing?” He asked. Monsieur Blanc dabbed at the sweat on his forehead.
“Mining. For coltan. I’m afraid they won’t get a very good price for it. Not from the man we are going to see.”
“So we must be in…” Jack thought for a moment. Was it the eastern Congo that had significant deposits of the metal? He remembered reading an article in The Economist bemoaning the high price of the ore and its knock-on effect on the technology industries.
“Democratic Republic of Congo?” He said at last. Monsieur Blanc nodded.
“But in this place the name of the country means nothing. Regions are controlled by men with guns. The man with the most guns decides what the place should be called.” Jack nodded thoughtfully.
“And you’re going to hand over ten decoy devices to one of these men so the British army can…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. A sudden slap in his face that drew blood from his lip stopped him.
“Not here Jack. Your insinuations are not welcome at this point in time.” Jack remained silent, allowing himself a discreet, satisfied smile. He had riled the man. Despite claiming he didn’t believe him, Monsieur Blanc was evidently not quite as relaxed as he seemed, and with good reason. Monsieur Blanc knew from past experience that a favourite trick of Clement’s was to make sure at least one of the boys sent to greet his visitors could speak their language. Someone to listen in, report back on the unguarded conversation that took place during the journey. If Jack was right and the devices really were a decoy, some kind of elaborate confidence trick, Clement was likely to sniff it out. He had instinct for that sort of thing, one the reasons he had remained in control of his little fiefdom for so long. If that happened, Monsieur Blanc looked thoughtfully into the jungle, if that happened it would be the first, and quite possibly the last time in his working life that his fate would be completely outside of his control. He did not enjoy the sensation.
38
Harvey Newman sat down at the head of the formal dining table feeling most at home. The hunting trophies arranged over the walls, stuffed stag heads, antlers, the crossed swords over the enormous fireplace, muskets and a coat of arms, it satisfied the all-conquering urge within him. Whoever had put them there, he could relate to. He was beginning to give some serious thought to buying a similar pad for himself. Maybe even shipping it over to L.A. to enjoy it in the sunshine.
Bob sat down at the table next to him, passing him a stack of papers.
“How’s your room, Bob?” Harvey asked, ignoring the paperwork.
“Old. Creaky. Four poster bed and tapestries all round. Like being in one of those ghost movies from the seventies.”
“Mine too, great isn’t it? I feel like Henry the eighth.”
“Did Sir Clive tell you when he’d be here?” Bob asked, tasting one of the sandwiches laid out on the table. “What the hell is this?” He pulled a piece of cucumber from his mouth. “Who the hell would make a sandwich from cucumber? Don’t they have salt beef in this country?” Harvey was laughing, finding it hard to control himself.
“Here, try these ones instead. Jeeves tells me they’re made from a local cheese and some homemade pickle.”
“Pickle?” Bob repeated quizzically.
“He meant relish. Anyway, they’re not bad.” He passed the plate to his colleague. “Sir Clive called me earlier. Said he’s on his way. They’re flying in a massive great Chinook. He’s got the go-ahead from his buddies in the cabinet so he’s put together a small team. Ten men. Assures me they’re the best available.”
“Hmm,” Bob replied, noncommittally. “Let’s hope they’re better trained than the people who make these sandwiches.”
Sir Clive watched as London tilted below the helicopter, the Thames a curving silver ribbon that cut through the city. He had Ed Garner on board and a team hastily put together at the Chelsea barracks. The usual range of skills — explosive specialists, medics, linguists. Soldiers who brought more to the battlefield than brute strength and all of them had direct experience of the region. Ed would lead them.