The Increment

THIRTEEN

Eleanor looked at Matt suspiciously: he had seen several different expressions on her face in the few times they had met — anger, fear, grief, laughter — but this was the first time he had seen suspicion. Up until now, he felt she trusted him. Now he wasn't so sure.

'What is it you do, exactly, Matt?'

Matt looked away. 'I run a bar and restaurant,' he replied. 'On the coast, just outside Marbella. You should come down sometime.'

'No, really,' she repeated.

Matt paused. They were meeting in the Feathered Crown, a pub along the river just down from Hammersmith Bridge. It was still hot, even though it was after eight, and most of the drinkers were sitting outside, stripped down to their T-shirts and bikini tops, drinking pint after pint of beer to stay cool. He and Eleanor had stayed inside: there was more shade, it was quieter, and nobody was likely to overhear their conversation.

'I've told you, I was in the regiment,' said Matt. 'They never let you leave entirely.'

'Do you think maybe you have issues with letting go, Matt?' said Eleanor, turning serious. 'That's quite a common psychological reaction, particularly with men who have been very committed to one career. After it ends, they have trouble focusing on the next thing.'

'Actually, I think they have problems letting go of me.' Matt took a sip on his beer. 'What did you find out?'

'There's been another one.'

The words were delivered calmly, but Matt could see a clear tremble of her lower lip as she spoke. Not as tough as she makes out.

'Where? Who?'

'A man called Ken Topley. Lived in Ipswich, in a block of bedsits. He was doing some part-time building work. He got up in the middle of the night, and started attacking the other people in the block with a knife. Killed two people, injured three more, then tried to kill himself. Cut open his wrists but he was overpowered when the police arrived. He's at the local hospital now, under heavy sedation, and on life support.'

'Was he a soldier?'

'Parachute Regiment. Did eight years, and got out two years ago. Divorced last year, with one kid. He didn't seem to have any kind of steady job, and he'd been skipping on child-support payments. But no history of mental illness.'

'Can you go and see him?'

Eleanor shook her head. 'I've asked, but they're clamming up. Ipswich Hospital say he is under police guard. No visitors. So I said I was interested in examining him for some research on mental traumas involving ex-servicemen.'

Matt looked up, suddenly interested. 'Did they listen?'

'They bit my head off.' Eleanor drained the orange juice in her glass. 'They told me a request like that would have to go through official NHS channels. I went to my supervisor at the hospital, but she just kicked me upstairs. Apparently, a request like that had to be made through the regional health authority.'

'Let me guess,' said Matt. 'They weren't helpful.'

'They told me to stop wasting my time,' she said. A tired note of despair was starting to creep into her voice. 'A waste of NHS funds, they said. I don't think I can go much further, Matt. I've got a set of suspicious circumstances, and then nothing. Nobody will help me, nobody will tell me anything about these men. I'm about ready to drop it.'

Matt reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. 'No,' he said firmly. 'Don't give up — not until we've checked everything.'

'I don't know where to go next.'

'There's one more man we can try. He's called Sam Hepher. He was your brother's sergeant back in the forces. A friend of mine, Keith Picton, left me his number on my answer machine last night. Keith knows everyone on the circuit. Says Hepher will speak to us tonight.'

Across the table, Matt could see Eleanor's eyes suddenly sparkle: it was as if a light had been switched on inside her. 'Then let's see him.'

Matt could see the shock on Sam Hepher's face. Like most old soldiers, he was used to death. He'd seen it enough times, its power to surprise had been eroded over time. If I just told him Ken was dead, it would hardly register. But a murderer? That was something Hepher was finding it hard to deal with.

'Ken wouldn't do something like that,' he said slowly.

They were sitting in a Portakabin at the back of a building site in Harrow. Hepher had been out of the army for two years, and was now working for his cousin's building firm, organising the security for the site. Usually he'd be at home by now, but the night guard had called in sick, so Hepher was doing the shift himself.

'That's why we're trying to find out everything we can,' said Eleanor. 'We want to know if something happened to Ken, maybe when he was still in the army?'

'It's funny,' said Hepher. 'I heard of another ex-serviceman who went crazy recently. A guy called Simon Turnbull.'

For a moment, Matt even wondered if Eleanor was about to jump out of her seat. 'There have been several,' she said quickly. 'We're trying to figure out if they might be linked.'

Matt looked closely at Hepher. They were sitting opposite him, with a single forty-watt light bulb shining down on them. He was a neatly dressed man, with crisp white chinos, the seam perfectly ironed, and a plain blue polo shirt. The desk was organised and tidy, even the copy of the Daily Mail neatly folded away before he started talking. A line was creasing up his forehead as he burrowed his head in concentration.

He's trying to decide how much to tell us.

'There was something that struck me. It might be nothing.'

Eleanor leant forward in her chair. 'Tell us.'

'About five years ago, Ken took part in some tests. Medical tests. There's a test facility on an airfield down in Wiltshire called the Farm. Heavily guarded, all very hush-hush, but the Ministry of Defence used it to test out new products. A lot of the anti-biological warfare agents used in the Iraq war were tested there.' He paused, glancing towards Matt. 'Anyway, they needed some volunteers. You know what it's like, Matt, soldiers never like to take part in that kind of thing. They think it's all bollocks. Most of them would rather face the enemy than a doctor. So it was my job to rustle up some enthusiasm among the men. Blackman needed some leave, so he could get married, and have some money to pay for the honeymoon. So off he went. Everyone who took part got extra leave, plus five hundred quid. Enough for a fortnight in Spain. He was only there a week, and seemed fine when he came back. He said they just gave them a few pills, but he couldn't talk about what they were for.'

'And now this,' said Eleanor.

Hepher leant back in his chair. 'I wouldn't have thought anything of it,' he continued. 'But that other fellow, Simon Turnbull. He was there the same week, doing the same tests.'

Matt gripped both the coffees in one hand, and walked back towards Eleanor. She was sitting by herself, alone at the row of tables outside the bar that flanked the ticket office to the Waterloo Eurostar terminal.

'What do you think it means?' he asked, putting the coffees down.

Eleanor dabbed a bead of sweat from her forehead. All around them, people were rushing for the last train of the day to Paris. 'It's connected,' she said firmly. 'Has to be.'

They had driven back from Harrow straight to the station: Matt had agreed to meet up with Orlena and Lacrierre just before the latter left for France. Matt and Eleanor were turning over what they had just heard, neither wanting to talk.

'It could just be a coincidence,' said Matt. 'The army tests drugs on the squaddies all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean anything.'

'I know, I know,' she muttered. 'People suffering from trauma or grief often start believing in conspiracy theories. It's all textbook stuff. The Freudians would tell us it's just a way of the subconscious struggling to come to terms with the loss.' She paused, her expression turning serious. 'But that doesn't mean the conspiracy isn't sometimes real.'

'What do you want to do next?'

'I need to find out more about the Farm,' Eleanor replied. 'I need to know who else was there that week and what drugs were tested on them.'

'Be careful,' said Matt. 'It's MOD. They aren't going to like you poking around too much. You've no idea how secretive that organisation is. Whatever happens at that place, they won't want to tell you about it.'

'I'll wear a short skirt, then,' said Eleanor. 'And smile a lot.'

'That should work.'

She leant forward, her lips brushing against the side of his cheek. It was only the briefest contact, over in a fraction of a second. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out.'

'Am I interrupting something?' said Orlena, looking down at Eleanor.

Her eyes rolled towards Matt, her expression scornful, as if she were taking pity on him for having to spend time with Eleanor. 'Our meeting is in just a few minutes,' she continued. 'The chairman doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

'This is Eleanor,' said Matt, nodding in her direction. 'And Eleanor, this is Orlena.'

'I won't keep you,' said Eleanor, suddenly flustered and shy. She looked towards Matt. 'I'll let you know what happens.'

Matt nodded. Eleanor looked towards Orlena. 'Bye,' she said brusquely.

'This way,' said Orlena, not replying to Eleanor.

She took Matt by the arm, and started steering him towards the platform. The crowds were thinning out, and Matt could see the security guards starting to pack away their equipment for the night.

'Christ,' said Matt. 'Where are we going?'

'Paris, of course,' answered Orlena.

Matt hesitated. 'The last train left ten minutes ago.'

Orlena looked at him and smiled. 'Lacrierre has his own train, stupid. He doesn't travel by public transport.'

He followed Orlena as she skipped through the one remaining security checkpoint, handed his passport to emigration, and followed her towards Platform 21. 'I've heard of private jets, but not a private train,' said Matt. 'Apart from the Queen's.'

'Why not?' said Orlena with a shrug. 'Eduardo likes to get back to Paris at least once a week. This is the best way for him to travel. Quick and safe.'

The train was waiting for them. Orlena had her own pass, and a key that unlocked the security doors. One Alsthom-built engine, with just two carriages attached, it looked just like a normal international train, only much shorter. His own Eurostar, reflected Matt as he climbed on board. You had to hand it to the guy. He knew how to live.

Lacrierre looked down at the picture. Even from the air, it was clear that the devastation was total. The factory had been burnt to the ground, its structure reduced to a few charred remnants. The other building had been shot to pieces. By the time this picture was taken — at least twenty-four hours after they'd hit the place, Matt judged — someone had been in to clean it up. But it was going to be a long time before they could start manufacturing anything there again.

'There,' said Matt. 'Job done.'

They were in Lacrierre's private carriage. The first carriage contained a kitchen, plus a range of office equipment: a pair of satellite phones, two computers, a Bloomberg terminal to keep him in touch with the financial markets, and a range of fax and copier machines. There were seats for two security guards, and one secretary: enough hired muscle to reassure, but not enough to look threatening. The second carriage was fitted out for Lacrierre himself, with long black leather sofas along the walls, soft lighting, a hi-fi and television.

It suddenly dawned on Matt that the train had started to move forwards. 'What the fuck's happening?' he said.

'We're going on a little trip,' said Lacrierre coldly.

'Let me off now,' shouted Matt.

'Calm down, Matt,' interrupted Orlena. 'We're going to Paris. I bought you a toothbrush.'

'Stop the fucking train!' said Matt, but he knew it was hopeless. He would have to roll with it, for the time being at least.

Right now, they had a prime view of Balham, Matt noticed as the train trundled its way through south London towards the new high-speed link starting halfway through Kent.

In the last thirty-six hours, they had driven back across the border to Kiev, grabbed a few hours sleep, said farewell to Malenkov, then headed straight for the airport. There was no BA flight to London, so they caught the LOT flight to Warsaw, then connected there on to a plane into Heathrow. Ivan had been paid £20,000 in cash by Orlena, and gone back to his family. Matt and Orlena had been summoned to a debriefing.

Lacrierre looked up and smiled triumphantly. The carriage had little furniture, but there were some military prints on the wall and two swords were hanging at the top of the compartment. Both, Matt judged from the fine steelwork around the blades, were the delicately curved sabres carried by Napoleon's Chasseurs à Cheval de la Garde, the Imperial Guard that followed him everywhere.

'Did they fight well?'

'Not well enough, obviously,' said Matt quickly.

A stewardess stepped through from the kitchen — a striking blonde, almost as beautiful as the girls in his office — and placed a teapot and biscuits down on the table in front of them. Lacrierre poured tea for Matt and Orlena, and took a bottle of Volvic water for himself. 'A man can die while fighting well, don't you think?' he said. 'It depends on whether the dice roll for or against him.'

'There's no glory in death,' said Matt. 'You've been a soldier, you should know that.'

Lacrierre said nothing. Matt stirred a sugar lump into the delicate china cup, and took a sip of the tea. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'it doesn't matter. The job's done, the factory destroyed. They aren't going to bother you any more.'

Lacrierre leant forward. 'Not quite,' he said softly. 'Think of it like a hive of ants. You can crush all the ants you want to, but unless you deal with the hive, then they just crawl back out again.' He paused, looking directly at Matt. 'I need you to get the hive.'

'The factory's finished,' said Matt. 'That's what I signed up for, and the job's done.'

Lacrierre stood up. He walked towards the window, glancing out on to the passing lawns. From the desk, he removed a single sheet of paper, then walked back across the carriage and laid it down in front of Matt.

'His name is Serik Leshko.'

Matt looked at the picture. It was a single, closely cropped snapshot printed out in black and white. The man was around forty, thin with black hair, and big round but dark eyes. His nose was probably broken, and his jaws were swollen and puffy.

'He is a Belorussian businessman,' continued Lacrierre. 'An old KGB hack, now working for himself in the private sector. He is the man who built the factory, and has been counterfeiting our drugs. We can blow up his factory, but maybe he will just build another one.' Lacrierre shrugged. 'So we blow up the man.' He sat down again, looking across at Orlena, the glimmer of a smile on his face. 'Like I said, crush the hive.'

'I've completed my mission,' said Matt quickly. 'The job's done. Over.'

Lacrierre unscrewed the bottle of Volvic, poured some into a glass and took a sip. 'From Paris you will go back to Minsk,' he continued. 'He should have been at the factory, but unfortunately he wasn't. So now you will go back and kill him. And then your work will be done.'

'It is done,' snapped Matt. 'Three words, one syllable each. Something hard to understand about that?'

Lacrierre looked back at him, puzzled, then amused. 'Your job was to wipe out all traces of the formulas for these counterfeits, so these people will never trouble us again. That means there's still work to do.'

'No,' said Matt, his voice rising. 'I've told you, the Firm leant on me to do this job, and I've done it. No more.'

'Then your Firm will just have to lean on you again,' continued Lacrierre. 'I'll tell you what Napoleon once said: "Victory belongs to the man who perseveres." Well, we want you to persevere until our enemy is completely crushed.'

'Napoleon ended up a prisoner of the English,' said Matt. Then he glanced across at Orlena. 'Unless I fell asleep in my history classes.'

He looked out of the window. He could see the train moving swiftly through Ashford as it approached the Channel Tunnel. Damn you, he thought. If I could jump from this train without killing myself, I would.

'Anyway,' said Lacrierre. 'It will give you a chance to spend more time with Orlena. You two have become such good friends.'

The wind was blowing in hard from the sea, taking some of the edge off the fierce midday sun. Matram sat on the stone sea wall, and slotted his shades down over his eyes. There were a few people along the main road running down into Plymouth Harbour, but the boiling temperatures had persuaded even English tourists to stay inside. It had just hit thirty-eight degrees centigrade, the hottest day ever recorded in Britain, and the heatwave was forecast to last for another fortnight.

Simon Clipper and Frank Trench had just parked the Renault Mégane across the street, and were walk towards him. Both men were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with shades pulled down over their eyes. To the casual observer, they were just tourists looking for somewhere to have lunch.

'What's the job?' said Clipper, sitting down on the wall next to Matram.

Matram took a can of Coke, pulling it open. 'Two men this time,' he replied. 'A pair of guys called Bob Davidson and Andy Cooper, both local boys. They fish. They've got a little boat in the harbour here. This summer they've been going out in the evening because it's so hot.'

'We get them on the boat?' asked Trench.

Matram nodded. 'That's right. I've arranged a dinghy to take us out. I'll be in charge of the boat, you two need to get into the water, then sink them.'

'Can we use any explosives?' asked Clipper.

'Better not,' said Matram. 'We should be quite far out, so there shouldn't be anyone around. But sound travels a long way at sea. An explosion could easily be heard for miles.'

Matram finished the Coke in one swig, crushing the can between his fists. 'Better to drown them, then scuttle the boat. That way they'll never be found, and even if they are it will look like an accident.'

Matt looked out across the Gare du Nord. It was early evening, and the station was streaming with traffic. Backpackers and students were pouring off the last Eurostar of the day, looking for cheap places to stay. Businessmen were rushing through for the last trains out to Brussels and Cologne.

He cupped the phone close to his ear. 'You do this, old fruit, and then even the encores are over,' said Abbott. 'Trust me. You can get straight back to serving sangria and chips out on the Costa del Crime.'

Just the sound of the man's voice was grating on Matt's nerves: every time he had to speak to him, ripples of annoyance ran down his spine. Lacrierre had dropped them at the station, and Orlena was standing a few yards away. The tickets from Charles de Gaulle airport were already in her hands.

'One hit, another hit,' said Matt angrily. 'I need to know how I can get your claws out of my back.'

'I'm telling you,' repeated Abbott. 'This one, then it's over. I've spoken to Lacrierre. He likes you. He likes the way the factory was taken down, and he just needs someone he can rely on to take out the guy who's organising it. Then it's done. Problem solved.'

Matt took a sip on the coffee he'd bought at the station. 'What's Lacrierre got on you?'

'As soon as you get a chance, check your accounts.'

'Which one?'

'The current account, Matt.' Abbott paused. 'The others are still blocked. It's like magic, you see, old fruit. Matt's a good boy, the account opens. Matt's a bad boy, the account closes.'

'I get my own money back, and I'm supposed to be grateful?'

'That one's just a gesture of goodwill. Get back out east and do the hit, and the rest will be open as well. Like I said, the slate will be wiped clean.'

Matt buried his face in his hand. There was always some trouble somewhere, and the Firm always needed men to sort it out for them. It was just as Ivan had said it would be.

'One more hit, Matt,' repeated Abbott. 'What difference can it make to a man with as much blood on his hands as you?'

Matt leant into the phone. 'Where's Gill? I haven't heard from her…'

'The sexy playgroup leader?' he said, a giggle playing on his lips. 'Buggered if I know, old fruit. Probably shagging the waiter back at the Last Strumpet.'

Matt paused. 'It's not like her to be out of contact for so long,' he said. 'I want to know if the Firm have anything to do with that.'

'Do the hit, old fruit,' he said. 'Then you can sort out your love life. It's called prioritising. I can lend you a book on it, if you like.'

Matt was about to respond: the fury was building in his chest, searching around for the words to express it. But the mobile had already gone dead in his hand. Orlena slipped her arms around his waist, pointing towards the taxi rank. 'Come on,' she said softly. 'It's time to go.'

Matram could feel the dinghy swaying beneath him. The breeze had dropped since midday, but it was still gusting strongly through the English Channel, whipping up foam on the top of the waves.

The old pirates along the Devon and Cornish coast had the right idea. At sea nobody can see you kill a man.

They had been on the water for almost an hour now, and Matram figured they were about a mile off the coast. Earlier in the day, he had fitted a small electronic tracker to the bottom of the target's boat. It was transmitting a signal up to a GPS satellite, and that was transmitting its precise location back down to him.

We can watch it as if it were right in front of our eyes.

'Another five minutes to impact,' he shouted across the stern of the boat. 'Ready yourselves.'

Clipper and Trench were both kitted out with wetsuits, with only their blacked-up faces visible. On to their backs they had strapped oxygen canisters, and they had flippers on their feet. Both of them had two thick steel hunting knives strapped to their belts, but otherwise they were unarmed. They were sitting calmly at the prow of the boat, looking out to sea as the vessel rocked through the waves.

The moonlight was glancing across the ocean, lighting up the path ahead. No clouds were cluttering up the sky, and Matram judged they would have good visibility for the rest of the night.

He looked down at the GPS display, adjusting the engine to the right to shift the direction of the dinghy. They would take the boat to within a kilometre of the target, then kill the engine.

Matram put a pair of Bushnell 20 × 50 high-powered surveillance binoculars to his eyes. They were designed for birdwatchers, but with a twentyfold magnification, and a thousand-metre range, he found them better than any of the kit the regiment issued. Adjusting the focus, he could see the boat drifting across the horizon. Two men were sitting on its deck, their lines cast out into the water. Like ducks, he thought. Waiting to get shot at.

Turning round, Matram killed the engine. 'Go,' he whispered.

Clipper and Trench broke through the surface of the waves with hardly a ripple, then disappeared below the water. As he watched them disappear, Matram checked his watch. Fifteen minutes past midnight. Within ten minutes both men should be dead.

He rested the binoculars on his lap, looking out into the water. To the naked eye, the boat was just a speck on the surface of the water. It could easily be a trick of the light. I can see them, but they can't see me.

Putting the Bushnell back up to his eyes, Matram counted down the moments. It was the minute before an assault he enjoyed the most. He could feel the anticipation pricking his skin, and the excitement brought out a gentle sweat on his forehead.

You could taste it a thousand times, but every assassination had its own special flavour.

A shadow broke through the surface of the water. Even at this distance, he could see the boat rock and sway as Clipper and Trench punched through the water, and scrambled on board. He increased the magnification, but at this distance it was impossible to make out much of the detail. He could see one of the men standing, and then another bending over, clutching his stomach in agony as a knife plunged into his stomach. The second man jumped backwards, losing his footing, crashing down to the bottom of the boat. Matram could see a knife slashing down at him. Within a minute, the scene had fallen quiet again. Then he could see weights being strapped to the two corpses as they were tossed into the waves. Next, he could see the boat list from side to side, as Clipper and Trench started to cut away at its side, shipping water into its hull.

A burial at sea, reflected Matram as he watched the boat disappear beneath the waves. They were soldiers once. They should be grateful for the death we have delivered them.