The Increment

SIXTEEN

Matram put the picture down on the table. A simple headshot measuring six inches by eight, it showed a woman in her late twenties. She had blonde hair tucked behind her neck, and a look of hidden intelligence concealed within her eyes. Attractive, but not a stunning beauty, reflected Matram.

'Her name is Eleanor Blackman,' he said softly. 'She needs to be eliminated. Immediately.'

Turnton picked up the picture, held it between his fingers, then passed it across to Snaddon. 'Who is she?' he asked, his voice, as always, painfully slow.

'Psychologist,' said Matram. 'It's time for her to check out.'

'Where does she work?' asked Snaddon brightly.

Of all the people in the Increment, Snaddon was always the most cheerful. The manner of a holiday rep, Matram sometimes reflected, but with the cold, dark heart of a natural assassin.

Macram glanced across at her. He had chosen her because he felt a woman would be right for this job. They know the ways of their own sex. It takes one to kill one.

'Charing Cross Hospital. In research.'

'Another hospital hit?' asked Snaddon.

Matram shook his head. 'I don't think so. Security may be terrible in those places, but it might be hard to get in and out again without being stopped. She doesn't work nights.' He paused, glancing down at the picture. 'I think it would be better if we could take her on our territory, not hers.'

Matt slammed the phone down. He had just spoken to Janey back at the Last Trumpet.

The bar was doing well: despite the intense heat of the summer, there were still plenty of tourists, and they were staying in the bar for half the night, trying to get enough liquids down their throats to stay cool. But there was still no sign of Gill. She hadn't been into the bar, and she hadn't been to work.

There was no sign of her anywhere.

Where is she? he repeated silently to himself. It doesn't matter how angry she is with me. She can't just disappear off the face of the earth.

Matt looked out of the window of the small Holborn flat where he had arrived this afternoon. His bag of kit was still in the hallway, he hadn't felt like unpacking. Outside, sweaty commuters were having a drink before they took the tube home. Matt could hear their laughter, but felt as if he were in another world. In their universe, people worked, had families, built careers and got on with their lives. In my world, I am surrounded by shadows, plots, deceptions and intrigues. And sometimes I despair of it.

I thought I was going out on a simple security job. Now, I'm at the centre of a conspiracy. I could walk away, forget about it, ignore the connections between Lacrierre and the soldiers who have been going crazy around Britain. That kind of knowledge is dangerous. It could get me killed. But although you can leave everything else behind, you can't throw away your memories. I'll always know that I could have done something about it. That will always be with me.

Eleanor smiled at him as she stepped into the flat. He'd called her as soon as he'd landed at Heathrow, telling her they needed to meet up right away. I'll be over, she'd replied. Just as soon as she could get out of the hospital. He remained silent as he showed her through to the main room.

'Are you OK, Matt?'

'It's worse than we thought,' he answered.

He sat down on the sofa, pulling out a sheaf of paper: the same papers he'd taken from Petor's burning apartment. Eleanor sat next to him, her expression worried. 'The drug was called XP22,' said Matt. 'It was developed back in the Soviet Union in the seventies and eighties. It made soldiers braver, but it had side effects.'

'And they used it on their men? Without testing it properly?'

'Cannon fodder,' snapped Matt.

'And you think it might have been used here?'

Matt rubbed his forehead. 'God knows what they use,' he said. 'In the Gulf, they gave the men all kind of crap. Told us it was to protect us against chemical weapons, but nobody knew what it was. Most of us threw it away.' He paused, walking across to the kitchen to get a glass of water. 'So yes, they might well have used it here.'

Eleanor looked down at the papers, studying them intently. Her eyes squinted at the faded lettering: they had been written on an old-fashioned typewriter, and were at least twenty years old, the black ink starting to fade. 'If only we could figure out the chemical composition of the drug.' She stood up, walking across to Matt. 'Then we could just test the bodies of one of the men who went crazy. I'm sure we'd find traces of this drug.'

'But what else are we going to find?' snapped Matt, his face reddening with anger. 'And then what are we going to do when we find out?'

Eleanor turned away from him. 'My brother died, I want the truth, Matt,' she said, her voice cracking. 'That's an end in itself.'

Matt's mobile was ringing. He picked it up, nodded twice, then said, 'OK, I'll see you then.'

'It's Abbott,' he said looking back at Eleanor. 'I'm going to see him now.'

'No,' said Eleanor, her tone anxious. 'It could be a trap.'

Matt shook his head. 'I need to see him,' he answered. 'I need to find out what he knows.'

The crimson, burning tip of a cigarette broke through the darkness. Matt sniffed the air, recognised the aroma of Dunhill tobacco, and started walking forwards. The car park at the Sainsbury's next to Victoria station was deep underground, three floors below street level. The first two floors were filled with busy shoppers, but this level was used only for unloading the food every morning, and was completely empty at this time of night. Abbott had insisted they had to meet somewhere away from the Firm: somewhere with minimal security, and where there was no chance of their being seen together.

'Abbott,' Matt shouted. 'Where the fuck are you?'

From behind a row of six giant rubbish pails, Abbott emerged. He was dressed in white chinos, a blue shirt open at the collar and a pale cream linen jacket. He looked across at Matt, a half-smile on his face, then tossed his cigarette on to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe.

'Good choice of camouflage,' said Matt. 'Next to the garbage you blend right in.'

'Watch your manners, old fruit,' said Abbott. 'You don't have to like me, but a little politeness wouldn't hurt.'

'And it wouldn't hurt you to learn about not telling lies to the men you are working with.'

'Lies?' Abbott took a step backwards. 'Maybe you didn't like this job, but I assure you there was no dishonesty involved.' He shrugged, reaching into his pocket and grabbing another cigarette. 'Anyway, it's all over now, old fruit. Our friend out in the wild east is dead. Made quiet a splash in the Minsk Mail, or whatever the local rag is called. Good work by you, old fruit. Lacrierre is very pleased. I'm very pleased. The Firm is very pleased. We couldn't be any happier if Cameron Diaz walked into the room asking if any of the chaps would mind if she gave them a blow job.'

'You're wrong. It's not over.'

Abbott looked at him closely. 'Listen to me, old fruit, job done. Time to get back to the Last Strumpet. Get the tapas into the microwave. Get the beer nice and cold. All that.'

'XP22,' said Matt. 'Ever heard of it?'

'Not much of a whizz with the computers,' said Abbott. 'What is it? One of Bill Gates's little wheezes for emptying out our wallets once again?'

Abbott stabbed the cigarette into his mouth. An orange glow from his lighter briefly lit up the space between them, illuminating Abbott's eyes as he shifted them sideways. Smokers, noted Matt. They reach for the nicotine when they're under pressure. Like when they're lying through their teeth.

'It's a drug. Used on soldiers in the Soviet Union. To make them brave.'

'Ah, Johnnie Commie,' said Abbott, taking a deep drag on the Dunhill. 'How we miss him now he's gone. Much more civilised class of enemy than all these Arabs we have to deal with nowadays. But what's it got to do with the here and now?'

'Lacrierre bought the drug,' said Matt. 'I don't know why or what for, but he did. And that's what the job was all about. Nothing to do with counterfeiting.' He took a step forward, his tone growing harsher. 'Like I said, you've been lying to me all along.'

'Nobody lied to anybody, Matt. The job's done, over. What does it matter to you what drugs were sold to whom? It was a long time ago. Your account is about to be unfrozen. You can get back to building that house, marry the schoolteacher, knock out a couple of little baby Brownings. Be nice to yourself, old fruit. Christ knows, nobody else bloody well will.'

'I can't,' said Matt bluntly.

'What a pity,' said Abbott.

A dark blue Land Rover Freelander drew up, the driver pulling the vehicle up right next to Abbott. He tossed his cigarette on the floor and climbed into the back seat, his eyes avoiding Matt. 'Cheerio, old fruit,' he said. 'I wanted to give you a pat on the back.' He sighed. 'Now I never will.'

The door clunked shut and the car pulled away, heading up the ramp towards the street.

I've made a mistake, realised Matt, cursing himself as the thought struck home. I should never have told him I knew.

As Matt left the car park, Ivan was waiting in a rented Ford Focus. 'Listen, I've been digging around,' he said. 'You want to know more about the bravery drug, then you need to go and speak to Professor Johnson. Old guy. Clever.'

Matt looked at him. 'Who is he?'

'He was a left-wing intellectual, back when the peace movement was big in the 1980s,' said Ivan. 'A lot of those people had contacts with my old lot. That's how I came across him. He's one of the world's greatest experts on chemical and biological warfare. If anyone knows about this drug, he will.'

'Where can I get hold of him?'

'Got a pen?'

Matt nodded.

'Then take down the number,' said Ivan.

'Information like that is dangerous,' said Professor Johnson, sitting back in a brown leather armchair.

Matt looked across at the professor. He was in his early seventies, but his hair was still black, and his skin was clean and soft. He tapped the end of his cigar against the desk, then, using a greasy old lighter, lit up a swathe of flame. The smoke curled away from his face.

'You should be careful what you do with it,' he continued.

According to Ivan, Johnson was one of the military's greatest critics. He had made his name in the early eighties, when he led campaigns on behalf of the servicemen who had witnessed nuclear tests. For years, the claims for compensation for the cancers and other diseases they suffered had been turned down, but Johnson had worked tirelessly on their behalf, until eventually some meagre payments were made to a few frail old men and a collection of angry widows. Next, he'd helped reveal how the government-sponsored laboratories had been used to test chemical and biological weapons. Soldiers had been told they were being given drugs to cure colds: in truth, they were being used as lab rats for weapons programmes.

'You look like a soldier to me,' said Johnson, looking across at Matt. 'Which regiment?'

'The SAS. Ten years. I've been out for two.'

Johnson took another drag on his cigar. 'Ever get anything tested on you?'

Matt shook his head. 'The Ruperts gave us some kit sometimes. We'd rather take our chances with the enemy than any of that rubbish.'

'Very wise,' said Johnson. 'There have been some disturbing reports about some of the chemical agents used in the first Gulf War. Men are coming down with diseases a decade later, and of course the military are denying everything. Then read the reports from Gulf Two, and you'll notice something odd again. The Americans have an abnormally high suicide rate. You always get a few suicides in a combat zone. The stress, a lot of men can't take it. But they are running at four or five times what you'd expect.' He shrugged, a smile on his lips. 'So, maybe something in the water?'

Eleanor looked up through the thick cloud of cigar smoke that had settled around Johnson's face. Even though it was close on forty degrees outside, all the windows in the study were closed, and the professor was still wearing a cardigan. 'Bravery,' she said. 'Is there any history of the military trying to enhance that?'

'Of course, over the centuries, armies have tried to enhance just about every aspect of military performance. That's what warfare is all about, getting a tiny edge over your opponent. The Incas were among the first, over a thousand years ago. They used to drill into men's heads, performing surgery on the brain, in the belief that it could banish fear in combat. Then there was alcohol, and tobacco. They have always been distributed liberally on the battlefield. And religion, of course, the greatest of all drugs. Every army has a few tame priests in its caravan, just to reassure the men there is another life out there somewhere, since this one might not last much longer.'

'But have you heard of specific bravery drugs?' persisted Eleanor.

Johnson rolled his cigar around in his fingers, examining the burning tip. 'There have been experiments for years, from what I am told,' he replied. 'It's such an obvious area. Fear is the greatest enemy any general faces. It's hard to get the men to do what you want. In a sense, that's what all military life is about. The square-bashing, the discipline, the peer-pressured comradeship, the flag-waving. It's all about getting men to overcome the most obvious of emotions. Which is that it's bloody frightening being shot at, and the most natural thing in the world is to run away.'

The cigar had started to ebb. Matt was beginning to tire of the history lesson. The professor took out his lighter, igniting it, sending a flame shooting upwards. His eyes darkened behind the crimson light, and just a bead of sweat was apparent on his forehead. 'About five years ago, I heard work in that area was being stepped up. In America, in particular, but in this country as well. At a place called the Farm.'

'That's where we think the drug was tested,' said Matt. 'What do you know about it?'

'All very hush-hush,' said Johnson. 'Places like Porton Down got a lot of publicity, but the Farm was where all the really secret work was done. As I said, about five years ago, they started doing a lot of work on parapsychology. And they had some nasty incidents.'

'Men going crazy?' asked Eleanor.

'I believe so,' replied Johnson. 'A couple of staff died in unpleasant circumstances. Again, nothing on public record. There was a man who used to work there, but he became disenchanted with the place. After that, he got in touch with CND, and that's how I met him. There was something dangerous going on there. He might be able to help you out. He's called George Caldwell. Lives near Chippenham. He can tell you what you need to know.'

'We need all the help we can get,' said Matt. He stood up, taking Eleanor by the arm. It was time for them to go. 'Thanks for your help, Professor,' he said, shaking him by the hand.

'You sure you haven't taken the drug?' said Johnson, looking closely at Matt.

Matt shook his head.

'Because you have to be a very brave man to take this on,' he continued. 'You can be certain of one thing. If the drug was tested in Britain, and if it had the side effects you say it did, then they won't let you live. They can't afford to.'

He looked hard at both of them. 'If you and your friend are determined to investigate this, then you have to take precautions. You probably shouldn't even be talking to me.'

As they drove away, Eleanor said: 'Are we going to see Coldwell?'

'No,' said Matt, 'I'm driving you home. We just got all information we need. It's time to confront Lacrierre.'

The house commanded a wide view over the rolling countryside of the Chilterns. About forty miles from London, and just a couple of miles from Junction Five of the M40, it was a grand Georgian residence, set in ten acres of landscaped parkland. Not much change out of five million, thought Matt, as he parked the Porsche on the circular strip of gravel outside the main entrance.

'And who are you?' said the man who opened the door.

A butler, or some other kind of flunky, Matt couldn't tell. 'I'm here to see Mr Lacrierre,' he said firmly. 'It can't wait.'

The servant looked at him disdainfully.

You can't pull that trick with me, pal. I'm a soldier. Humiliation doesn't bother me.

'Mr Lacrierre is busy, sir. He left instructions not to be disturbed. Maybe you could phone his office for an appointment.'

Matt reached out, grabbing the man's right hand. He held it tight between his fists, twisting it around until the veins in his wrist started to bulge. He looked up into the man's eyes, waiting until he could see the moment of maximum pain. 'The time for making appointments has passed,' he said. 'Now give him this message. Tell him Leonid Petor is here to see him.'

'Who?'

Matt gripped his hands together, using all his strength to squeeze the man's twisted hand. 'Just bloody tell him.'

Matt waited in the hallway, while the flunky scuttled away. The floor was laid with marble tiles, and the walls were decorated with oil paintings. Most were of distinguished-looking Victorian gentlemen, with a few dog-and-horse scenes thrown in.

The butler looked sullen, and was still nursing his hand, as he showed Matt towards the library.

'I haven't heard the name of Leonid Petor for years,' said Lacrierre, walking forward and offering Matt his hand.

'I needed to grab your attention,' said Matt, ignoring his gesture.

Lacrierre stepped away, examining Matt suspiciously. The library was filled with leather-bound books, tucked neatly on to the shelves. From a glance at the spines, Matt could tell most of them were military, in a mixture of English and French: biographies, campaign memoirs, guides to guns and weapons and battleships. You can read about it all you want. But that doesn't mean you won't shrink when the sound of real gunfire is bursting open your eardrums.

'He's dead,' said Matt.

'I'm sorry to hear that. He was an intelligent man. One of those men who are obscure, yet brilliant. An interesting type, don't you think?'

'There's nothing interesting about being dead.'

'I suppose not,' answered Lacrierre. 'What happened to him?'

Matt took a step forward. 'Orlena shot him,' he answered. 'That was just a couple of minutes before I shot her.'

He watched closely. He wasn't certain, and it was only there for a fraction of a second, but he thought he could see a flicker of surprise pass across Lacrierre's face.

'So many people appear to have died,' he said. 'I don't know where I'm going to get the wreaths from.'

'Perhaps you should get one for yourself while you're at it.'

Lacrierre attempted a half-smile. 'Do sit down.'

'I'd rather stand,' answered Matt.

Lacrierre coughed. 'Orlena was a valued employee. Maybe you could tell me what happened?'

'XP22,' said Matt. 'A drug. It makes men brave, but it makes them crazy. Apparently Petor developed it, then you bought it from Leshko. That's what the whole job was about, wasn't it? It was a cover-up.' He leant forward, so close he could smell the aftershave sweating off Lacrierre's skin. 'I don't know any more than that, but I'd like you to tell me.'

'Don't bother about XP22, Matt,' said Lacrierre. 'It was all a long time ago. A lot of scientific material came out of the old Soviet Union. Some of it was useful, most of it rubbish. It's history.' He stepped aside, his eyes scanning the row of books on the shelves, not looking back at Matt. 'Your work is done, you'll be paid, let's bury it.'

'Men are dying all over the country,' said Matt. 'I can't bury it.'

Lacrierre turned round to face him. His eyes were blazing with anger and his lips drawn tight over his mouth. Matt could see Lacrierre pressing a button. Immediately two men entered the room: tall and stocky, with tousled black hair and dressed in black jeans and blue T-shirts, they looked like former French soldiers.

'Don't try and intimidate me,' snarled Matt. 'It won't work.'

The air between them was thick with anger, and Matt could sense the violence in Lacrierre's expression. Suddenly Lacrierre smiled. 'I suppose I should be grateful to both you and Eleanor,' he said slowly. 'For bringing these disturbing matters to my attention. Now let's see if we can resolve this calmly…'

Matt turned away. The two guards were advancing threateningly towards him, and although every instinct within him was telling him to stand and fight, he knew that would be a mistake. They started to push him roughly out of the room towards the front door, and Matt staggered down the steps on to the gravel.

Lacrierre's words had struck home. If Lacrierre knew about Eleanor, then she was in danger, Matt realised. Terrible danger.

The streets around this part of Brixton were mostly bedsits and small flats. Old Victorian terraced houses had been split up into rabbit warrens of tiny, nasty apartments, often rented out to asylum seekers by profiteering landlords who knew the government would pay the rent. The roads were covered with litter, broken-down cars, and off-licences with thick metal grilles hanging over the windows to stop anyone stealing the booze.

Matt took one look, then jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator of the Porsche. If she was here, then she was in danger.

His eyes scanned down the street, darting left and right. No sign of her. But he could see a car, a Vauxhall Omega, outside the house, and inside it two motionless figures. Waiting.

It's them.

Twenty minutes earlier, he'd been at Charing Cross Hospital, asking one of her colleagues where Eleanor was. Not here, he'd been told. Gone on a house call. A house call? asked Matt. She's a researcher, she doesn't do home visits, she doesn't even see any patients. The man had just shrugged, said he didn't know, but the big cheeses at the hospital wanted her to go take a look. Bollocks, Matt had thought. It's a trap.

He'd bullied the address out of the secretary, then climbed back in the car. Eleanor didn't drive, he knew that much. She'd be getting public transport; that gave him a chance of getting there before her. He had battled his way through the traffic into Putney, then turned down towards Brixton, swearing to himself as he struggled to find Wellington Road. As he drove, the same thought was hammering into his head. What if I'm too late?

Should have bought a different car, realised Matt, as he steered his Porsche into the side of the road. Then again, all the drug dealers round here drive Porsches and Mercs. Maybe I just look like a local.

He slipped out of the car and started walking, his head bowed, taking care not to draw any attention to himself. Dressed in black jeans and a grey polo shirt, he blended easily enough into the drab surroundings. He looked down the road. Number Thirty-One was the house she was meant to be visiting. He stole a glance towards it. The bottom two windows were boarded up, one of the ground floor-windows was shattered, and there was a small stack of phone books and junk mail gathered on the porch.

An empty, abandoned house. A killing field…

He looked further down the road. It was just after five, and there was an old lady pulling a shopping bag down the other side of the street, and a man standing on the corner talking into his mobile phone. Three spaces down the road, the Vauxhall Omega was still parked on the street. Matt could see two heads, a man and a woman, and yes they were sitting perfectly still.

There's only one kind of person who sits like that: still, inconspicuous, patient. A trained assassin.

Suddenly Eleanor came into view. Still thirty feet away on the other side of the Vauxhall, she was turning the corner, a bag swinging at her side. She was glancing up and down the street, searching for the right number, then she started walking quickly towards it. Matt moved swiftly along the street, picking up his pace, trying to judge how quickly he could move without drawing any attention to himself. What are their orders? he wondered to himself. Will they start shooting in daylight? Will they risk injuring innocent bystanders? In the next few minutes, I'll find out.

Too quick, they'll realise I'm trying to rescue her. Too slow, they catch us easily, and we'll both get killed. That's some choice.

He could hear a noise as he crossed the road.

'Matt,' she said, looking up at him, the surprise evident in her tone. 'What…'

'Shut up, and walk,' he muttered, slipping his arm around her back, keeping his voice down low.

'But, Matt…'

He started steering her in the opposite direction.

'Shut the fuck up and walk,' he repeated, slightly louder this time.

'Excessive hostility,' said Eleanor. 'I think you have issues.' She paused, struggling to loosen his grip. 'You're hurting me.'

'Just move,' snapped Matt.

He started to steer her past the Vauxhall. The door was opening, two people, a man and woman were climbing out. Matt looked up, catching the woman's eye. There was something in her manner that he recognised, the steadiness with which she held herself under pressure, the mechanical, practised firmness of her movements.

'Run,' he shouted. 'Run for your life.'

Using all the strength in his shoulders, he yanked Eleanor forwards, dragging her along the street. He could see the look of fear and bewilderment in her expression, but her feet were starting to pick up speed. Behind him, he could hear doors closing and then the sound of the car roaring into life, and the skid of tyres against tarmac as it turned itself round. Fifteen yards, he told himself. That will take us back to the Porsche. Just a jew desperate yards.

'Get in the car,' he shouted, flinging Eleanor around to the other side of the car. He leapt into the driver's seat, hitting the ignition and jamming his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car was already revving furiously as Eleanor was climbing into the seat next to him. He spun away from the kerb, pushing out on to the road, Eleanor screaming that her door was still open.

'Shut it,' he shouted. 'For Christ's sake, shut it.'

In his mirror, he could see the Vauxhall twenty yards behind him. The road was straight at this point, only starting to curve ten yards ahead. A series of five smaller streets cut across it.

The man was at the wheel, Matt saw. And the woman was lining up her gun. Pointing right at me.

In the regiment, Matt had been given basic training in escape driving. Both police and former rally drivers would come to Hereford to instruct recruits on tactics for making a getaway. The knowledge was still there somewhere, Matt decided. If only I can use it.

He swerved to the left, turning the Porsche into a side street. The Vauxhall was following hard behind. He checked the mirror. The woman. The gun. Still there.

A shot rang out, then another, the bullets blasting through the air. Matt instinctively ducked, shielding himself from impact.

'What was that?' said Eleanor, breathless.

'The car behind,' said Matt. 'They're shooting at us.'

Eleanor started to turn around.

'Don't look around,' said Matt. 'That just makes it easier for them. Get down.'

Matt could hear the sound of another bullet impacting against the car. Then another one. He saw that the driver's side mirror was smashed, and the Porsche had taken a hit somewhere else. He started jamming the car from side to side, accelerating down the narrow street. At his side, Eleanor was screaming.

'Stop, stop, you're going to kill us,' she yelled, tears running down her face.

Matt yanked hard on the handbrake, swivelling left as he did so: that sent the awesome power of the Porsche all into the rear of the vehicle, spinning it hard into the ninety-degree turn. This turn was needed to take him into a very tight corner at high speed. Matt could hear the gears crunching, and the sound of metal tearing against metal. The car spun viciously, its force pinning him back in the seat as if a huge weight had just been thrown against his chest. For a brief moment, he could feel it spinning out of control, then, pushing his body forward, he gripped the wheel, hurtling it sideways and releasing the handbrake. The engine started to rev, and the Porsche accelerated down the left-hand street towards Brixton Road.

One thought was racing through his mind. Get out on to the open road where the power of the Porsche can outrun these people.

The car bumped along the edge of the pavement, swerving and narrowly missing a parked van. Matt checked the mirror. The Vauxhall had been confused by the sudden turn, and the engine had stalled as the driver struggled to spin it round, but it was moving again now, accelerating down the road, the woman leaning out, the gun in her hand.

Matt jammed his foot harder on the accelerator, a surge of power from the engine riding through the car.

Another shot. Matt could hear a bullet impacting against the glass, and through the mirror he could see a crack in the back window. He looked ahead. They were approaching the main road, and he could see a queue of afternoon traffic snaking along the thoroughfare.

'Hold on tight,' he shouted to Eleanor.

The car swerved around the corner, then up on to the edge of the pavement, taking it on to the high street. At this point it was wide enough to take a whole car, but the Porsche only narrowly missed the shop windows. Matt crashed his fist on to the horn. A sheet of white noise was rising up from the car, sending shocked pedestrians scattering in all directions.

'You're going to kill someone,' shouted Eleanor.

Never underestimate how quickly people can react when they are facing extreme danger, Matt reminded himself. That had been a lesson he'd learnt in the regiment, and he'd never forgotten it. When they see an out-of-control Porsche driving down the street, people can move faster than they would have believed possible.

A woman jumped out of the way, and a man was screaming as the car slid across the pavement. Matt steadied the wheel, and steered past two shops. He could hear others screaming at him. Horns were blaring, and one man banged furiously on the roof of the car. Ahead, he could see a red light; in front of it a few precious yards of open space had opened up. Matt accelerated and the car leapt into the space. Matt leant back in his seat. As he raced through the red light, the road was suddenly clear. He pushed the car up to seventy, disappearing into south London.

'You OK?' he said, looking towards Eleanor.

He could see the pale terror written into the skin of her face. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

Matt looked behind. The Vauxhall was nowhere to be seen. They were safe. For the next few minutes anyway.

Eleanor took a sip on the Coke Matt had just bought her, but turned down the chips. They had driven south for ten miles, making sure nobody was on their trail. Then Matt turned round, heading back into town, pulling the car up at the drive-in McDonald's at the roundabout on the south side of Wandsworth Bridge.

Never try to fight or think on an empty stomach. You won't do either right.

'We go and see Abbott,' said Matt. 'We have to get Lacrierre's goons called off. Next time they might actually kill us.'

'Why can't we go to the police?' said Eleanor, her tone nervous and edgy. 'Those people just tried to kill us.'

'Trust me,' said Matt.

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Eleanor, getting angrier. 'Since when did the police stop protecting people who are getting shot at?'

'No,' he said. 'This involves the MOD, remember. Only the Firm can help us now.'