The Increment

SEVENTEEN

The house was larger than Matt had expected. An elegant Victorian villa, double-fronted, with its own garden both front and back, it was on the corner of Carlton Hill, just a short walk from Regent's Park. A new Land Rover was sitting on the driveway, and next to it a bright red Mini Cooper.

I might not be keeping up with London property prices. But this place wouldn't leave much change out of two million.

'I'm busy, old fruit,' said Abbott, opening the door only a fraction. 'We'll have to talk another time.'

Matt stepped forward. 'We'll talk now.'

The door was carved from a solid chunk of wood, with at least three sets of bolts running through it. But it swung easily enough when you put pressure on it. Matt pushed with his fist and stepped quickly into the hallway. Eleanor was following close behind.

Abbott can get those assassins called off.

'Like I said, this isn't the right moment, old fruit,' said Abbott, backing away into the hallway. 'Why don't you call my secretary, make an appointment.'

'I've been shot at once today already,' said Matt. 'I need this cleared up and I need it cleared up now.'

Abbott started walking towards the drawing room. It was painted pale yellow, with a pair of hunting prints dominating one wall and huge gilt-framed mirror over the marble fireplace. From the bachelor furnishings, Matt judged that Abbott lived alone.

'Do you want a glass of sherry?' he said, walking towards a silver drinks tray with a set of three decanters on it.

'I want the truth.'

Abbott smiled. 'Nice play on words, old fruit.' He looked across at Eleanor. 'And how about the young lady? I don't believe we've met.'

Eleanor looked up towards him. 'I'm fine, thanks.'

'Who is she, Matt? Your new squeeze?' He paused. 'You certainly seem to get through them.'

'She's the sister of a friend of mine. Guy called Ken Blackman. Do you want to know what happened to him?'

Abbott started pouring himself a drink. 'Not really. Don't go much on family histories, not really my bag. But I've a nasty feeling you're going to tell me.'

'He was a soldier,' said Matt. 'XP22 was tested on him. Down at a place called the Farm in Wiltshire. A couple of weeks ago, he went crazy, killed some people, then killed himself. Same thing has happened to a whole group of soldiers across the country. We reckon XP22 was tested on all of them.'

Abbott took a sip of his drink. 'I do hope you're not going to bore me on the subject of that drug again. What do you think any of this has to do with me?'

'Very simple,' said Eleanor. 'XP22 was developed in the Soviet Union. Lacrierre bought up that technology from a gangster called Serik Leshko. He sold it to the Ministry of Defence, along with God knows what other lethal concoctions. They tested it on some soldiers. Some of those men have since suffered severe side effects. Next, to cover up what had happened, you sent Matt out to destroy Leshko's operation, and kill him.'

Abbott looked at her and smiled. 'So you're the brains of this little outfit. Sure you don't want that drink?'

Eleanor shook her head. 'I told you, I'm fine.'

'You should, you know. You're going to need it.' Abbott walked across the room, pulled aside the curtain, glancing out on to the dark and empty street. 'What do you think I'm going to do now?'

'Have Lacrierre arrested,' snapped Eleanor. 'The man's responsible for dozens of deaths.'

Abbott nodded, as if he were turning the idea over in his head. He lit up a cigarette, the smoke curling away from his face. 'Interesting idea,' he said slowly. 'But I was thinking more along the lines of having you arrested.'

The look of shock took a moment to register on Eleanor's face. Matt could see her brain working furiously.

'Us?'

'And why not?' continued Abbott. 'You seem to have figured out most of the story. It's just the ending you haven't guessed. True, XP22 was acquired from the old Soviet Union. True, it was tested on British servicemen. Very effective it was too. But unfortunately, as you have discovered, the drug has side effects. A few of the fifty men who have taken it — not all, about a third so far — have turned into psychopathic monsters. Many of those on whom it was tested have had to be eliminated.' He paused, taking a long, deep drag on his Dunhill. 'For the good of the wider community, you understand.'

'Ordinary squaddies are always expendable,' said Matt bitterly.

'Quite so,' said Abbott. 'Put with your characteristic verve and wit, Matt. You see, Tocah couldn't be allowed to take responsibility for the experiments with XP22. It's a big important company, and it does a lot of covert biological weapons work for the MOD. Then, of course, the Firm wasn't about to take responsibility either. That's not our bag. So, we needed someone to clear up the mess for us.' He looked towards Matt. 'We chose you.'

'It was a set-up all along,' snapped Matt.

'More an unfortunate misunderstanding,' said Abbott. 'We got you to take out the factory, then to kill Leshko, so we could cover up what had happened in the past. If you'd just done that, you could have gone home and everyone would have been happy.'

He tossed the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. 'Your mistake, Matt, is that you seem to have stumbled across too much information. You know too much. That's why you've been shot at today.'

'The Increment,' Matt muttered darkly.

'Old friends of yours, I think,' said Abbott. 'Always good to meet up with old pals, have a jolly good get-together.' He chuckled to himself, a small mirthless giggle that rattled up from his throat.

Matt moved across the room. He was standing next to Abbott, leaning into his face. 'You miserable bastard,' he shouted. 'I should never have trusted you, never. I should never have trusted the Firm.'

'Probably not,' replied Abbott. 'Still, thanks for all your help. I would shake your hands to wish you goodnight, but I don't like touching dead people.'

The punch landed hard against the side of Abbott's face, sending him sprawling on to the floor. 'I'll kill you first,' snarled Matt.

'No,' shouted Eleanor. 'Leave him. We'll get the evidence and destroy him that way.'

Matt's fist was poised in front of Abbott's face. His shoulders were drawn back, ready to punch. Abbott looked back at him and smiled. 'I've pressed an alarm button,' he said. 'Why don't you take a seat and wait for your old pals to come and deal with you?' He pulled himself up, retrieving the end of the cigarette, taking a quick nervous drag. Then he got up quickly and walked back towards the window, looking out anxiously on to the street. 'You're good, Browning, I'll grant you that.' He turned again to look at Matt, rubbing the red stain where the blow had landed. 'But you're up against the Increment. It's the most lethal, ruthless killing machine on earth. You haven't got a chance.'

Matt moved forward. His face was red with anger, and his muscles were tense, prepared for violence. 'No,' shouted Eleanor, dragging him backwards. 'He's already called for help.'

Matt started to advance towards Abbott again but he knew Eleanor was right. The Increment would be here in a few moments. If we're to save ourselves, we have to flee.

The room was damp and cold. The carpet had been rolled up, and the floorboards were grey and dusty. There was one chair in the corner, and some old net curtains hanging across the windows.

'It's not much,' said Ivan, putting down his kitbag, starting to whistle under his breath. 'But it can be home for a few days. And at least it's safe.'

Matt smelt the air. It could have been years since the place was cleaned. From the kitchen, he could detect some ancient, decayed food, and from the state of the floorboards it looked as if mice had been chewing their way through the place. From what he knew of the safe houses run by the IRA through London, there might well be a couple of corpses rotting out the back.

Nothing would surprise me right now.

'It's fine,' said Eleanor, looking across at Ivan and smiling. 'We'll be OK, thanks.'

'Like I said, it's not much.'

As they'd fled Abbott's house, Matt had called Ivan. From his time in the IRA, Ivan knew of some of the safe houses, and quite a few of them were empty now, abandoned and collecting dust. He'd taken them to this one, a nondescript Victorian terrace in Cambridge Grove, just off Hammersmith Broadway.

If you were fighting the Increment, decided Matt, Ivan was the man to turn to. He'd waged war on the British Army for half his life.

Matt was aware that Ivan was putting himself on the line. But, he reflected, if the Increment is coming after me, they'll be after him next. We're all at risk.

From his bag, Ivan pulled a few essentials: a kettle, a jar of instant coffee, some sandwiches, packets of crisps, chocolate. He handed a bottle of shampoo to Eleanor. 'Keep you hair clean,' he said, with a smile. 'When you're on the run, hiding out, it helps to wash. Makes you feel human, even when nothing else is pointing in that direction. Trust me, I've been there.'

She took the bottle, putting it to one side. 'Thanks,' she replied.

'What are you going to do now?' said Ivan, looking towards Matt.

Matt walked over to the window. The sun had already set and the sky was clear of clouds. The stars were looking as bright as they ever did through London's haze and smog. 'We fight back,' he answered. He turned to look at Ivan. 'Oh, I know what you're going to say. Maybe we should turn and run? Get ourselves some new identities and get the hell out of the country? Put it all behind us, and start again somewhere else?' He paused. 'If I could, I would. But I don't know how.'

'It's the Increment that's coming after you, Matt,' said Ivan. 'You know what they're like. Even back across the water, we were scared of them.'

'I know, I know,' said Matt. 'But those bastards tested that drug on a bunch of good men. While we still have a chance we have to keep trying.'

Ivan sighed. 'Okay, I'll help you anyway I can. But you can't say you weren't warned.'

'I understand.'

'New identities,' said Ivan. 'You'll need those for a start. Remember, the Increment has the whole government machine working for it. Use your credit card, your phone, drive your car, check into a hotel under your own name, they'll be on to you in a flash.'

'You know anyone who can help us?'

Ivan nodded. 'I know some guys,' he said. 'They used to work for my lot, doing forged passports, new credit cards, identity theft. They went freelance after the Troubles ended. I'll organise it for you.

You'll be OK for a couple of days, then, so long as you're lucky.' Ivan paused. 'The issue is what do you do next?'

'We go to the papers,' said Eleanor. 'We expose what's happened.'

Ivan shook his head. 'Not yet,' he replied. 'You haven't got enough.'

'Then we'll get it,' said Matt.

'We'll get a sample from one of the dead men,' said Eleanor. 'If we can get it analysed, then we'll have proof that XP22 was tested on British soldiers.'

Ivan nodded.

'There are only four things the Increment does,' said Matram, looking around the room. 'Killing, killing, killing and killing.' He paused, taking a sip of water. 'And there's just one thing it doesn't do. Failure.' Eight people were sitting in a semicircle around him, the entire Increment gathered in one place.

This was an emergency.

Matram put two photographs down on the desk. They were meeting at the Travelodge just next to Wandsworth Bridge in south London; if you looked out of the window, you could see a B&Q and a McDonald's. It was too sensitive for them to meet at the Firm, and although there were several barracks around London they could have used, he preferred to keep well away from the mainstream army.

We're operating off the books. The less anyone knows about what we're doing right now the better.

Matram held up the first picture between his fingers. 'This man is Matt Browning.' He picked up the second picture. 'And this woman is Eleanor Blackman.'

He paused. 'I want them both dead,' he said, spitting the words out of his mouth like little chunks of gravel. 'Immediately.'

He looked closely into the faces of his unit as he delivered Browning's name. The entire membership of the Increment was turned over every few years, so of the current unit only Harton had served alongside Browning. He, Matram knew, would say nothing to the others. Still, it was possible they might have heard of him, but judging by their expressions none of them had. They showed not even a flicker of recognition. The name meant nothing.

He was history. And in a few more days they would have buried him.

Browning, thought Matram. Most jobs were just work, but the great God of soldiering has smiled on me this time. I always wanted to get even with that coward. This one will be a pleasure.

Matram glanced at Turnton and Snaddon. 'You were sent to deal with her yesterday. She was lured to a prearranged property where she could have been quietly disposed of. The job went wrong. You must explain what happened.'

Turnton leant back in his chair, his arms behind his head. 'The target was rescued, boss, before the job could be completed.'

Matram rubbed his brow wearily. 'Rescued? What do you think this is, a fucking Bugs Bunny cartoon? People don't get rescued from the Increment, man. They may pointlessly sacrifice their own lives by attempting a rescue, but they only end up dying themselves. I can't believe I have to spell this out to you. If anyone attempts to rescue a target, then they get eliminated as well. Simple as that.'

Snaddon stood up, looking straight ahead at Matram: she'd always believed herself to be his favourite operative within the unit. 'We gave chase, sir,' she said crisply. 'We were waiting for the target to go inside the house, then we were going to deal with her. This man, the one in the picture, started fleeing with her, and jumped into a car. A Porsche Boxter. Fast.'

'I think I'm aware that a Porsche is quite a fast car. Just because I have to work with idiots doesn't mean I like being treated like one.' Matram paused, noting the way she blushed at the insult. 'You gave chase?'

'Of course,' answered Snaddon. 'He was good. He took the car up on to the pavement, then pulled it out on to the open road ahead of some traffic lights. There was no chance of following unless we went on the pavement as well.' She paused, her eyes cast down to the floor. 'Standard operating procedure for the Increment is to avoid civilian casualties, unless intervening to prevent a domestic terrorist incident. Because of that, I didn't think it was right to inflict injuries on bystanders.'

'I'm familiar with the SOPs, thank you,' said Matram coldly. 'I wrote them.'

'I think the man knew them as well,' interrupted Turnton. 'He was aware of the limitation on our actions, and he took advantage of them.'

True, thought Matram to himself. Browning knows how the Increment works.

'When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,' he snapped. 'Your inability to eliminate this man will be noted in the next review. I understand your failure, but I cannot accept it.'

Matram looked towards the rest of the unit. 'Nothing like that is going to happen again, because the rules have just changed. Hunting down these two people has now been reclassified as a counter-terrorist operation. That means the gloves are off. A full-scale terrorist alert has gone out to police forces across the country. Every policeman will be watching out for them. Every credit-card company and bank will be alerting us if they use a card, or withdraw any cash. Every hotel company will tell us if they book a room. These two show their faces anywhere, we're going to know about it. When it happens, the police will notify us. They've been told not to approach them. Too dangerous. The last thing we want is for the boys in blue to starting flapping around, buggering everything up.'

With his hands behind his back, Matram walked across the room in a slow methodical line. 'Since this is classified as counter-terrorism, we can use whatever means are necessary to achieve our objectives. Don't kill any bystanders if you can possibly avoid it, but at the same time don't let them escape. If there has to be collateral damage, so be it.' Matram smiled. 'They can run, and run fast. But not fast enough to evade us. Our eyes are everywhere.'

He paused, looking hard into the eyes of each of the men and women present in the room. 'We stop at nothing until they are dead,' he said. 'Now go do some killing.'

The funeral parlour was among a newsagent's, grocer's, butcher's and pub in a row of shops on the outskirts of Swindon. JACK DAWSON & SONS ran the name above the black stencilled lettering on the sign: FUNERAL DIRECTORS, AND MONUMENTAL HEADSTONE CRAFTSMEN.

It was just after nine in the evening, and every shop in the row was now shut: the pub was still open but there was nobody going in or out. 'You wait here,' said Matt to Eleanor. 'I'll get in round the back.'

It was two weeks now since Barry Legg had been killed, and ten days since his body had been discovered face down in a ditch on the edge of a field three miles from the road where he had last been seen alive. They saw a news report detailing how the body had been released by the police and the funeral was scheduled for the next weekend. Now, the body was here, in a casket. If Legg had traces of XP22 in his body, then they had their case. The drug had been tested on British soldiers, and all the men who had taken it were being methodically eliminated. By the Increment.

All they needed was a sample of brain tissue.

Matt stopped. A short alleyway ran down the back of the row of shops. There were some bins outside the butcher's, full of bones and offcuts of meat; the sun of the day had caught the decaying flesh, and it was starting to reek. A cat, chewing on one of the bones, glanced up at Matt, then scampered away. He walked forward. The undertaker's was the third shop in the row, with a single black door leading out on to the alley. There was a Banham lock, and a bolt holding the door in place, but above it there was pane of frosted glass with a mesh grille across it.

Not much security, thought Matt. Then again, who ever tries to rob an undertaker's?

He checked above him. To the back of the alley, there was a row of buildings, but none of them had windows directly overlooking the door. Matt took out the crowbar he had equipped himself with earlier, and tapped it against the side of the glass. Soft. Not reinforced. He positioned the crowbar in his fist, and delivered a sharp blow to the centre of the window. Hit glass in the right 'way, and it crumbles in on itself, Matt reminded himself. You just have to strike at the point of maximum weakness, right at the precise centre of the pane. Now the glass splintered, cracking out from the centre, then falling on to the ground. Matt twisted the crowbar into the metal wire, gripped the handle, then yanked it back. The metal struggled, the bolts securing it to the frame straining. Matt concentrated, directing all his strength towards his shoulders, and yanked it again. One bolt dislodged, then another, and the mesh broke free.

Matt ripped the mesh out, cast it to the floor, and pushed his fist through the opening in the window, undoing the bolt. He wedged the crowbar into the lock, and pulled that open. The door swung free.

They'll know there's been a robbery. They'll just be puzzled that nothing has been taken.

The back door led into a small kitchen area. A kettle was next to the sink, a few unwashed cups at its side. A half-opened packet of sugar stood next to a pack of PG Tips. Matt walked through to the back office. He glanced at the papers, and the computer on the desk, then looked across to the row of five black tailcoats and top hats laid out neatly on a coat rack. There were several tins of black boot polish next to them.

These guys keep their shoes cleaner than the Ruperts on medal day.

The bodies were kept in a long, thin gallery just behind the main shopfront. From the heat of the day, it was still and cool in there. When he stepped into the room, Matt could see three coffins ahead: they were laid three feet apart, all of them closed. He checked them one by one, looking for the name tags. Nothing. Christ, he thought, I'm going to have to look inside them.

Matt gently lifted the first coffin lid, the pungent smell of the chemicals used to cleanse and preserve the body hitting his nostrils. A woman, probably in her eighties, was staring back at him. He moved on to the next coffin: this time an elderly man. This must be you, he thought as he pulled up the third lid, and looked down at the corpse inside. A man, in his late thirties, with black hair, his eyes closed, and with his arms resting neatly at his side.

Matt winced. A decade knocking around battlefields had not hardened him to the sight of corpses. Every time he looked at a dead body, he felt painfully aware of how thin were the threads that separated the dead from the living. Some instinct told him not to touch it, if it could be avoided, as if death itself were somehow contagious.

He took the thick syringe Eleanor had given him, and thrust it into the corpse just below the ear. She had explained how the bone of the skull was at its softest there. The needle should be able to find a way through. Matt pushed, jiggling the needle as he did so, helping it thread its passage through the bone. The smell of formaldehyde, the most common embalming fluid, drifted up from the corpse: the body had already been prepared for the funeral. Matt could feel his stomach churning, as the sickly chemicals were sucked into his lungs. He jabbed the syringe forward, feeling the needle sink into the soft tissue of the brain. Pausing, he pulled the syringe back, extracting a sample.

Sorry, pal. If you knew why I was doing this, you'd forgive me.

Matt tucked the syringe into his jacket pocket, and pushed the lid back down on the coffin. He stepped quickly away, ducking back into the alleyway, and out on to the street where Eleanor was waiting for him.

'Got it,' he said, steering her towards the waiting car.

Eleanor took the sample, then leant across, kissing Matt on the cheek. 'All we have to do now is get it tested.'

Membury Service Station on the M4 was close to empty. It was after eleven at night by the time Matt and Eleanor pulled up, filled the car up with fuel, and grabbed themselves a pair of burgers from the café.

'Professor Johnson,' said Eleanor, sitting in the car. 'I'm sure he'll know how we can test this sample.'

Matt dialled the number on the stolen mobile Ivan had given him. 'I'm sorry, I know it's late,' he said to the woman who answered as soon as she picked up the phone, 'but it's urgent. Could I speak to Professor Johnson?'

'Too late,' said the woman, her tone hostile.

'I know it's late, I said I was sorry to disturb you,' repeated Matt. 'But I really need to speak to him. He won't mind being woken.'

'Who are you?'

Matt hesitated. There was something strange about the woman's tone. 'What's happened?' he asked.

'The professor died this morning,' she answered. 'Who are you?'

'I'm…' Matt struggled for the words. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Who are you?' repeated the woman, her voice louder now.

'I'm sorry,' said Matt. 'I can't say.'

He snapped the phone shut. 'The professor is dead.'

Eleanor looked back at Matt. 'He said we shouldn't have been to see him.'