voice of his over the years. Or maybe this was all complete bullshit. Maybe three years in Bioko and five weeks in Black Beach Prison had finally got the better of him, the paranoia eating into him like a dark and corrosive acid, rotting his mind.
Jaeger had almost no recollection of the night his wife and son had been ripped out of his life. It had been a still winter’s evening, one of a crisp, breathtaking serenity and beauty. They’d been camped out on the Welsh hills, the sweep of the starlit sky wide and wild above them. It was the kind of place where Jaeger had been at his happiest.
The fire had died to ashes and the last conscious thought Jaeger had had was of crawling into the tent, zipping together the sleeping bags, and his wife and son wrapping close to him for warmth. He’d been left half dead himself – the tent pumped full of a toxic gas that had rendered him utterly defenceless – so the lack of any further recollection was hardly surprising. And by the time he’d come to, he was lying in intensive care, his wife and child many days gone.
Yet what he couldn’t fathom – what terrified him – was the way in which that eagle symbol seemed to dig into those long-buried memories.
The army shrinks had warned him that the memories would be in there somewhere. That one day they would very likely start to resurface, like driftwood washed ashore by a storm-lashed sea.
But why was it this – this dark eagle symbol – that threatened to reach so deep and drag them back to the light?
12
Jaeger had spent the night alone in the apartment.
He’d had the dream again; the one that had for so long haunted him after Ruth and Luke had disappeared. As always, it had taken him right up until the moment of their being snatched away from him – the images crisp and clear as if it were only yesterday.
But the instant the dark terror struck, he’d woken, moaning, in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. It tortured him – this inability to go there, to remember, even in the comparative safety of his own dreams.
He was up early.
He grabbed a pair of running shoes from the wardrobe, and set out to pound the frost-kissed fields. He headed south, following an easy slope that led across a shallow valley, crowned by the woodland of Grove Coppice on the far side. He hit the track that steered a wide loop through the trees, and upped his pace, settling into a familiar ground-eating rhythm.
This had always been his favourite part of the circuit – the thick wood shielding him from prying eyes, the tall ranks of pines deadening any sound of his passing. He let his mind settle into the beat of the run; let the meditative pulse of his footfalls quieten his troubled consciousness.
By the time he burst into the sunlight once more, at the northern end of Pheasant’s Copse, he knew exactly what he had to do.
Back at Wardour Castle, he showered quickly, then powered up his desktop. He sent a quick message to Captain – now Colonel – Evandro, hoping that his email address remained the same. After the usual niceties, he popped the question: who were the other parties that had bid against Wild Dog Media to undertake the coming expedition?
In Jaeger’s mind, if there were people out there with a motive to murder Andy Smith, surely the rival bidders had to be first amongst them.
That done, he gathered up the precious photo of his wife and child, replaced the secret papers in their hiding place in Grandpa Ted’s war chest, locked the apartment and fired up the Triumph. He took a leisurely ride down Hazeledon Lane; it was early and he had time to kill.
He parked at Tisbury’s Beckett Street Delicatessen. It was nine o’clock, and they were just opening for business. He ordered poached eggs, hickory-smoked bacon and black coffee. As he waited for the food, his eye was drawn to the newspaper rack. The headline across the nearest paper read: Central African coup: President Chambara of Equatorial Guinea captured.
Jaeger
Jaeger had almost no recollection of the night his wife and son had been ripped out of his life. It had been a still winter’s evening, one of a crisp, breathtaking serenity and beauty. They’d been camped out on the Welsh hills, the sweep of the starlit sky wide and wild above them. It was the kind of place where Jaeger had been at his happiest.
The fire had died to ashes and the last conscious thought Jaeger had had was of crawling into the tent, zipping together the sleeping bags, and his wife and son wrapping close to him for warmth. He’d been left half dead himself – the tent pumped full of a toxic gas that had rendered him utterly defenceless – so the lack of any further recollection was hardly surprising. And by the time he’d come to, he was lying in intensive care, his wife and child many days gone.
Yet what he couldn’t fathom – what terrified him – was the way in which that eagle symbol seemed to dig into those long-buried memories.
The army shrinks had warned him that the memories would be in there somewhere. That one day they would very likely start to resurface, like driftwood washed ashore by a storm-lashed sea.
But why was it this – this dark eagle symbol – that threatened to reach so deep and drag them back to the light?
12
Jaeger had spent the night alone in the apartment.
He’d had the dream again; the one that had for so long haunted him after Ruth and Luke had disappeared. As always, it had taken him right up until the moment of their being snatched away from him – the images crisp and clear as if it were only yesterday.
But the instant the dark terror struck, he’d woken, moaning, in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. It tortured him – this inability to go there, to remember, even in the comparative safety of his own dreams.
He was up early.
He grabbed a pair of running shoes from the wardrobe, and set out to pound the frost-kissed fields. He headed south, following an easy slope that led across a shallow valley, crowned by the woodland of Grove Coppice on the far side. He hit the track that steered a wide loop through the trees, and upped his pace, settling into a familiar ground-eating rhythm.
This had always been his favourite part of the circuit – the thick wood shielding him from prying eyes, the tall ranks of pines deadening any sound of his passing. He let his mind settle into the beat of the run; let the meditative pulse of his footfalls quieten his troubled consciousness.
By the time he burst into the sunlight once more, at the northern end of Pheasant’s Copse, he knew exactly what he had to do.
Back at Wardour Castle, he showered quickly, then powered up his desktop. He sent a quick message to Captain – now Colonel – Evandro, hoping that his email address remained the same. After the usual niceties, he popped the question: who were the other parties that had bid against Wild Dog Media to undertake the coming expedition?
In Jaeger’s mind, if there were people out there with a motive to murder Andy Smith, surely the rival bidders had to be first amongst them.
That done, he gathered up the precious photo of his wife and child, replaced the secret papers in their hiding place in Grandpa Ted’s war chest, locked the apartment and fired up the Triumph. He took a leisurely ride down Hazeledon Lane; it was early and he had time to kill.
He parked at Tisbury’s Beckett Street Delicatessen. It was nine o’clock, and they were just opening for business. He ordered poached eggs, hickory-smoked bacon and black coffee. As he waited for the food, his eye was drawn to the newspaper rack. The headline across the nearest paper read: Central African coup: President Chambara of Equatorial Guinea captured.
Jaeger
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