The Increment

TWENTY-TWO

'What happened to you?' said Ivan, looking at Matt's red, bloodshot eyes.

Matt rubbed the sagging, exhausted skin on his face. 'Bad night at the office.'

Matt had driven back from the Thurlow's house in the Volvo. They were meeting at the Little Chef on the Epping Road, just to the north of London. It was just after eleven at night, and they both needed something to eat. Only a few people were in the restaurant at this time: workers from Stansted coming off their shift, and some truckers filling up with food before doing the night run along the Ml to avoid the traffic. At least when they say an all-day breakfast they mean it, decided Matt, as he ordered himself the Olympic Breakfast with an extra egg and some toast on the side.

'You're sure those are the two names the accounts belong to?' said Ivan. 'Abbott and Matram?'

Matt nodded. 'I saw it clearly on the screen,' he replied. 'The man was frightened out of his skin. He wasn't trying to trick me.'

'So it was them all along, in a plot with Lacrierre,' said Ivan drawing out the words. 'That explains why the government hasn't just picked up the men who took the bravery drug. I don't think they even know about the side effects yet. This has been a private-sector operation all along. Lacrierre is using Abbott and Matram to cover up what he's done.'

Matt clenched his fist. 'So we're not fighting the whole government? Just three men.'

Ivan glanced suspiciously around the restaurant. 'You know what you have to do, then?'

Matt nodded, folding some bacon into a piece of toast and stuffing it into his mouth. 'Hit back at them.'

Ivan smiled, tapping the side of his head. 'I might have said this to you before, Matt, but one of these days a little light bulb is going to go off in your head, and you'll start seeing things clearly.'

'Like how?'

'Like this,' said Ivan. He took a sip on the refill of coffee the 'waitress had just put down on the table. 'There was always something odd about Orlena's involvement. Remember when we were going into the factory? We met a lot more resistance than we expected. Then when we burst into the last room, that boy lying wounded on the floor, he recognised her.'

'He cried out, Orlena, Orlena,' interrupted Matt. 'I remember.'

'That's right,' replied Ivan grimly. 'He said something else as well.'

'Some nonsense in Russian or Ukrainian,' said Matt. 'Begging for mercy.'

Ivan shook his head. 'I've been researching this. Orlena used a word back to him. Likuvannia.' He stopped, glancing up at the ceiling. 'Likuvannia,' he repeated. 'Then the man replied, Pishov, pishov, and she shot him.'

'Meaning?'

'Likuvannia is Ukrainian. It means cure. Or antidote.'

Matt pushed his plate across the table. 'An antidote? For XP22. You think that's what she was looking for?'

Ivan shrugged. 'I don't know. She was asking the man about that, and he was saying pishov, pishov. Meaning it's not here. Then she shot him. That tells me she was looking for something.' Ivan paused. 'And if she was looking for it, you probably should be as well.'

Matt nodded, looking back at Ivan. 'If there was an antidote, then we could save all the men on the list. The men XP22 was tested on…'

Ivan grinned.

'We have to go and get it,' continued Matt. 'If the antidote exists, we have to find it.'

Matt looked at Eleanor. He could see the strain in her eyes. Her skin was taut across her face, as if it had been stretched, and her high, solid cheekbones were growing more prominent by the day.

It was morning now, and the light was starting to filter through the window. Matt had glanced up at the sun as he awoke, with the same sensation he remembered from his days out on the battlefield.

You look at the sunrise differently when you keep thinking each day might be your last.

During the night, he'd slept fitfully. After leaving Ivan, he'd come back to the hotel, checking he wasn't being followed, and slipped into the bed next to Eleanor.

Eleanor chewed on one of the croissants that Ivan had just brought them. She was dressed just in a long white T-shirt, her hair pushed out of her face by a clip. Ivan was cradling a cup of coffee in his hands. 'What can we do?' she said, her voice cracking.

'We take the fight to them,' said Matt. 'Tonight, Friday. We close this thing right now. The one lesson I learnt from the regiment was that you always take the fight to the enemy. I tried to take the fight to Lacrierre before, but I didn't have the back-up.'

'And you hadn't thought it through,' said Ivan. 'Lacrierre's going to be at his most vulnerable on the train. His house is no good. The office is no good. Both will be crawling with security. A train is much more difficult to defend. On the train we can nail the bastard.'

'It leaves at eight-forty every Friday night,' said Matt. 'I'll speak to Damien and organise some ammo. Ivan, you get home, make sure the family are all right, then help us out with some bombs.'

'And what do we do once we get him on the train?' asked Eleanor.

'We get the antidote,' said Ivan.

'Then we kill him,' said Matt, pronouncing the words with brutal simplicity.

Eleanor winced. 'And me?' she said.

'Stay here,' said Matt. 'You'll be OK. This is work for trained fighters.'

Eleanor was about to speak.

'He's right,' said Ivan. 'I'm usually a big supporter of the sisterhood, but women just get in the way when a battle starts.'

'No,' said Eleanor. 'I need to be there.'

'It's too dangerous,' snapped Matt.

Eleanor's cheeks reddened. 'And which one of you scientific geniuses is going to recognise whether Lacrierre has given you the right antidote?'

A half-smile started to spread across Ivan's face. He glanced across at Matt. 'I'm afraid she's right.'

'Damn it,' muttered Matt. 'We should be doing this by ourselves.'

'You know the trouble with you, Matt?' said Eleanor. 'You're suffering from a hero complex.'

'No,' he replied. 'I'm suffering from a staying-alive-until-the-end-of-the-bloody-day complex.'

A street market was occupying the central square of Sherbourne, a pretty, quiet town of just a few thousand people in Dorset. It was almost midday and the air was filled with the smell of flowers and fresh bread. Matram stopped at a stand, bought himself an ice cream to help cool down, then carried on walking down the high street.

What is it our al-Qaeda pals say to themselves? he asked himself. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, them Muhammad must come to the mountain.

The house was towards the end of the high street. The Happy Times playgroup was scheduled to end at twelve, and from what the local police had told him, Ivan Rowe's son George was always there on Friday morning. His doting father always picked him up, according to the school. You could rely on it.

Matram checked his watch. Two minutes to twelve. The man would be within his grasp within a few seconds.

He signalled to Harton and Godsall waiting in a white van across the street: Be ready! The sound of the van's engine roaring to life briefly crossed the street before it dropped back down again.

Matram's eyes scanned up and down the street. There were a few people doing some browsing, but not many: the heat was keeping people indoors, and the shops seemed half empty. He could see a car approach, a three-year-old Audi A4 estate. It pulled up to the side of the street, a man stepped out. Against the mental picture he had filed away in his head, Matram did a quick check. There could be no doubt. It was him. Rowe.

Gripping his Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol close to his chest, Matram moved forward. There was one man across the street, but he wasn't looking at them. Matram was standing close to Ivan, their eyes locking on to one another. Swiftly, Matram thrust the pistol forward, jabbing its barrel into Ivan's ribcage, then turning it slighdy upwards. He knew enough about guns to know that any bullet fired from that position was going to travel straight up through the ribcage, smash open the heart, then lodge itself in the brain. Nobody could survive.

'There's a white van over there, Irishman,' growled Matram. 'I want you in the back in three seconds. Otherwise you're a nasty stain on the pavement.'

Silently, his head bowed, Ivan started to walk towards the back of the van.

Matt looked over the array of weaponry. The guns were stacked neatly in rows, an armoury that would earn their owner a life sentence if the police ever discovered it. The rifles were mostly Russian: Kalashnikov AK-47s, not the newer AN-49s Matt had been using out in the Ukraine. Next to them were six American-built Winchester X2s, long-range hunting rifles that were also excellent sniping weapons. The handguns were Clocks: two dozen of the small, pocket-sized PI 20569 semi-automatic pistols, and ten of the more powerful PI 35301.

Each gun had a dozen rounds of ammunition stocked next to it, filed away in boxes. Next to them were fifteen crates of Semtex explosives, complete with fuse wires, plus an assortment of flak jackets, and bulletproof vests.

Enough kit to declare war on a medium-sized country.

'So why is it called the North Bank?' Matt asked.

Damien grinned. 'You're spending too much time out of the country, pal. Losing your local knowledge.'

Matt nodded. 'Home supporters' end, Highbury? The North Bank.'

'Right, and this is our Arsenal.'

They were meeting in the cellars of a disused railway arch just outside Chatham, east of London. It was here that Daniien kept weaponry that would later be distributed to the gangs of south London: free if you were one of his men, for a heavy charge if you weren't. The kit was shipped in from abroad, usually inside lorries doing the run across from Belgium or Holland. Both of those countries had a thriving trade in black-market weaponry, either coming across Germany from Eastern Europe, or up from the Middle East through the Balkans. Stick a pair of guns in the cargo of a twenty-two-ton articulated lorry and nobody was going to find it. All the driver had to do was pull up at one of the service stations on the M20, and hand the gear over in the car park. A couple of hundred quid in cash was very handy: Damien's network usually paid out in euros, so the truckers could use it to have some fun while they were abroad without having to tell their wives.

'I need a lot of stuff,' said Matt, pointing at the displays. 'A pair of those Kalashnikovs, plus four pistols. A flak jacket, that would be useful. And as much Semtex as you can spare.'

Damien nodded. 'You're going to go in for them.'

'If anyone's got any other suggestions, I'll take them,' said Matt, his lips creasing into a rough smile. 'But right now I can't think of any.'

Damien took the Kalashnikovs down from the rack, handing them across to Matt. It was the classic 1947 Soviet model, with the slim wooden handle and under-mounting, and the curved thirty-round magazine cartridge: half a century old, but still one of the best weapons ever designed, and one Matt felt comfortable with.

You couldn't rely on much in life, but your AK-47 never let you down.

He loaded up a stack of rounds, then took four of the Glock handguns plus thirty rounds of ammunition. From the cases, he took twenty pounds of Semtex, each one-pound block wrapped in plain greaseproof paper as if it were nothing more dangerous than a lump of lard. He placed them neatly in the plastic rucksack that Ivan had given him: it was going to be a heavy load but his back could handle it.

Get in there, blast them to hell, and get out faster than a rat on roller skates.

Matt hauled the rucksack on to his back. There must have been two hundred pounds of kit in there. Still, it was only two flights of stairs and a couple of hundred yards to his car. Compared with three days of yomping across the Brecon Beacons through the sleeting January rain during his training for the regiment, this was nothing.

As they reached the top of the thick metal staircase that led out of the cellar, Damien gripped Matt by the shoulder. 'What help do you need?' he said. 'I want to repay her blood as much as you do.'

Matt hesitated. He could see the strength and determination written into the man's face, and he could sense the longing for vengeance that was burning within him. 'I need to take out a train,' he replied. 'And I need men. By tonight.'

Damien nodded. 'Then I know just the man who can help you.'

The back of the van was hot and sticky. Matram had ordered all the windows tightly sealed. If Ivan started screaming — and he might — then he didn't want the sound escaping. Even though they were speeding through the countryside, that risked detection.

The van had no air conditioning, and with the midday temperatures getting close to thirty-five degrees outside, the air was pulsing with heat. Nobody could breathe. Harton was up front steering the van through the gentle Dorset countryside, and Godsall was sitting with Matram, guarding the back of the van from any attempt by Ivan to escape.

He's not fighting back yet, but he was a Provo back across the water in the old days. He'll know how to take a beating.

'Here,' said Matram.

The van drew up to a halt. From the window, Matram could see they were at the end of a country lane. About two hundred yards away there was a farmhouse, but a row of trees blocked this spot from its view. Only a few sheep grazing in the next field could see him from here.

'Put him on the ground,' said Matram.

Godsall opened the back of the van, pushing Ivan roughly on to the muddy surface of the lane. The mud was caked harder than concrete, and Ivan landed roughly on the side of his shoulder. He rolled over, deflecting the force of the impact, then lay still, his hands tucked in neatly to the side of his chest.

Smart, thought Matram, hopping out of the van and standing next to Ivan. He knows he's going to get a beating, and there's nothing he can do about it. He's just preparing himself to survive it the best he can.

'You know what, Irishman, I think you and I could get along just fine if we wanted to,' said Matram slowly.

Ivan remained completely still, his cheek lying flat against the mud.

'A bomb-maker, that's what I heard,' continued Matram, kneeling down next to Ivan. 'Always liked the fireworks boys, myself. Nice big bangs, some pretty lights and not many survivors. That's just the kind of expertise a soldier needs.' He paused. 'So if you and I wanted to be friends, I think we could work something out. Save a lot of unpleasantness.'

'You want a bomb made?' said Ivan. 'I can probably help you.'

Matram shook his head slowly from side to side. 'No, that's not it. I want to know where your friend Matt is.'

'Matt Browning? You've met him?'

'Our paths have crossed.'

'Then you'll know he's a mean fucker,' snapped Ivan, his tone hardening. 'Unless you've got some very fancy medical insurance, you should stay out of his way.'

A boot slammed into Ivan's chest, hitting him just above the heart. His body shuddered under the force of the blow, the pain rippling out from his chest into the centre of his body. He rolled backwards, coughing, as he struggled to refill his lungs with air.

'No jokes, bogtrotter,' snapped Matram. 'Like I said, if you tell me where he is, I can save you a lot of pain.'

'I don't know where he is,' said Ivan, struggling to pronounce the words.

Matram leant closer to his ear. 'We're the Increment,' he said softly. 'I'm sure you know us from the old days across the water. Best bloody fun of our lives, popping across on the BA shuttle and using some bogtrotters as target practice. It was even better when we got to rough them up a bit before we put them underground.' He paused, savouring the words, letting them roll around his tongue. 'Your lot weren't afraid of very much, but they were afraid of us. And so should you be.'

Ivan rolled his eyes upwards. He looked hard at Matram, scrutinising his clean, neatly shaven face, the squashed, flat nose and the narrow, pebble-like eyes that stared intently down. 'I'll take you to him,' he said, stretching out a hand. 'Just help me back up.'

To anyone who just wandered in for a drink, the Two Foxes off Camberwell Church Street looked just like one of a thousand south-London pubs. Faded Victorian coach lamps on the walls, thick stained wood around the bar, beer mats on every table, and the same old pair of geezers sitting in the corner every afternoon nursing their pints and rolling their own smokes. But to anyone in the know, it was an office — a place where the Walters family came to do business.

If we're safe anywhere, we're safe here, reflected Matt. The police won't come in here. They haven't got the guts.

Eleanor was staying back at the hotel for the rest of the day: Damien didn't think the people he was about to introduce Matt to would like the idea of bringing a woman on a job. They were old school: in their world, robbing was men's work.

Jack Pointer looked straight across at Matt. A hand-rolled cigarette was dangling from his lower lip. 'Regiment?' he said, pronouncing the word with disgust.

He looked familiar. His head was round and bald, and his skin had the deathly purplish complexion of men who'd spent most of their life in jail. 'Ex,' said Matt. 'Been out for a couple of years.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Pointer. 'You are a ponce in my book.'

'Steady, Jack,' interrupted Damien. 'We're working together on this one.'

Pointer took another sip on his pint of black stout. 'We'll see about that.'

Suddenly Matt realised who he looked like: Harry Pointer, a vicious debt collector who worked for some of the Russian mobsters in Malaga, and dropped into the Last Trumpet occasionally. Matt had owed his people some money once, and had regretted it.

'I think I might know your son Harry,' said Matt. 'Nasty tub of lard, with a vicious criminal mind.'

Pointer smiled. 'That's my boy,' he said. 'Beautiful lad.' He looked up at Matt, his mood softening. 'Damien says you need help?'

'I need a train stopped.'

Pointer grinned. 'Then I'm your man.'

'Ever heard of the Balham job?' said Damien.

Matt shook his head. The gangs were just like the army, he reflected: every regiment had its own history of glorious victories and so did every gang. 'Can't say I have.'

'Seventy-two. Train carrying freshly minted banknotes up to London. Two million of them. Jack and his boys hit it. Got away with the money, as well, back when two million still meant something.'

'So what went wrong?' said Matt, looking across at Pointer. The man was at least sixty, and looked in rough shape.

'Seventy-seven, got shopped,' said Pointer. I got thirty years. Out last year.' He grinned. 'Still got my electronic tag, but I decided to leave it at home today.'

'And you can still stop a train, you reckon?'

Pointer took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and started rolling the soft leaves between his grubby fingers. 'Connex South Eastern, British Rail, it makes no difference to me,' he said. 'The one thing you can rely on with a railway in this country is that they won't have bought any new technology. We can stop it the same way we did back in the seventies. By fiddling with the signals.'

He licked the Rizla paper. 'The question is, why do we want to?'

Matt started to speak, but Damien stopped him. 'Because it's regiment you'd be taking out,' he said. He looked back across to Matt. 'There was a bad riot at Brixton nick back in eighty-four. Jack and some of his mates took over a wing for a few days. Barricaded themselves in. The SAS were sent in and started beating the buggers one by one until they gave themselves up. One of his lads suffered brain damage. He's still on a drip.'

'Well, killing some regiment boys,' said Pointer, opening his mouth to reveal two missing front teeth, 'now that is worth getting out of bed for.'

The Volvo was sweating in traffic on the M25. This route had seemed like the quickest way from Camberwell up to Essex, but the motorway had been backed up all the way, and steam was starting to rise from many of the cars. If this ancient car had ever had air conditioning, it had long since broken. Sweat was trickling down Matt's back as he looked up at the angry mess of snarling, stationary traffic stretched out before him.

Christ, a breakdown. That's all I need, thought Matt, watching as the needle pointed towards red on the thermostat: the police coming to help me with a full load of munitions stacked up in the back of the car.

He glanced at his watch. Ten past four already. Lacrierre's train for Paris left at eight-forty this evening, and would take an hour to make its way down to the Channel Tunnel. In this traffic, he didn't have time to get Eleanor, then get all the way back down to south London to hook up with the train line. There were only four hours left in which to organise the final assault.

Damn the British traffic. It was impossible to get anywhere these days.

He looked across at the mobile lying on the passenger seat. It was the latest model Ivan had supplied. It should be safe, he told himself.

He checked his watch again. Twenty past four. The traffic had inched forwards maybe sixty, seventy yards. At this rate he'd be lucky to get there by next Wednesday.

And the moment of retribution will have escaped me.

Matt wrenched the gear into first, moved forward another eight yards, than jammed his foot on the brake. The lorry in front of him was belching out heavy black fumes, and on the hard shoulder, a pair of cars had broken down, smoke rising from their engines. Caution be damned. The risks I'm running already are so terrifying one more doesn't make much difference. Either the gods are smiling on me or they aren't.

He picked up the mobile and punched in the number of the hotel, asking for Room Twelve. Eleanor answered the phone on the second ring. 'You all right?' she asked anxiously.

'So far,' replied Matt tersely. 'You?'

'OK. Just waiting.'

'Listen, I'm not going to make it,' said Matt. 'Too much traffic. You come and meet me in Battersea. Five forty-five on the bridge at the top of Battersea Rise. If I'm not there by six, assume the worst.'

The van was heading up the M3, going past the signs off into Basingstoke and heading into London. Ivan was sitting in the front seat, with Matram at the wheel. Harton and Godsall were sitting in the back, both of them close enough to Ivan to prevent him attempting an escape.

'So give me the name of the hotel,' said Matram.

'The Holiday Inn Express,' said Ivan. 'In Buckhurst Hill, in Essex. Close to Stansted Airport.'

Matram turned to him and grinned. 'Just what I always thought,' he said. 'You PIRA boys were always just a bunch of gangsters. The first sight of blood, you betray your mates. It worked in the old country, and it works here as well.'

Ivan shrugged, remaining silent. He'd been preparing munitions to blow up the train. Fortunately they'd only searched him for guns and knives. He had a tiny sliver of explosive hidden in his trouser pocket wrapped in silver paper to look like a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum. All he had to do was find the right moment to wriggle it down to the floor and stamp on it to trigger the explosion.

'The names, bogtrotter,' snapped Matram. 'I want the names they are checked in under.'

Ivan looked back at him coldly. 'Keith Todd and Helen Nuggett.'

'How do I know you aren't lying?'

'Call them and see,' said Ivan. 'It's a hotel, they'll know who the guests are.'

Matram leant back in his seat, passing a mobile back towards Harton. 'Ring,' he snapped. 'Check they're there.'

Harton took the phone, punching in a number for directory enquiries, then asking to be put through to the Holiday Inn in Buckhurst Hill. He turned his back, holding the phone close to his ear, shielding the noise of the van as the call was put through.

For a brief second, his back was turned on Ivan, and he was blocking Godsall from moving forward.

Ivan paused. There was a risk he might blow his own leg off in the next few seconds, but that was a chance he'd have to take. The explosive slithered from his trousers, on to the floor in front of him. A mixture of potassium nitrate, available in any agricultural store, and sugar, and packed into an emptied-out Roman candle, it was simple but effective. As the cracker blew, it sent out a huge plume of thick, ugly smoke.

Ivan leant sharply across the seat, his right hand clamping down hard on the steering wheel, tugging it to the right. 'Let's see how you drive, fucker,' he spat up into Matram's face.

The van swerved violently to the right, zagging out into the fast lane of the motorway. All the men in the van were shouting at once. A collision could be heard at the back, as a car winged its left side, sending the van spinning back to the left. It was rocking violently as the huge plume of smoke obscured the view inside and out.

Ivan's hand was still locked to the wheel, yanking it in one direction, while Matram pulled in the other. With his left hand, Ivan reached down, feeling for the handbrake. He grabbed it in his fist, pulling upwards with a single hard movement of his shoulder muscles. The van stopped, the tyres burning against the tarmac, sending both Matram and Ivan hurtling towards the window. It came to a halt, then jolted forwards as something else collided with its back.

Flinging the door open, Ivan jumped down. He landed hard on the tarmac, ducking sideways to avoid an on-rushing car. It screeched to a stop, just six feet short of him, skidding sideways, its horn blaring. Another winged it, turning round, and wobbling on its wheels as it narrowly avoided tipping over. Further behind, a lorry was hammering its brake, a blast of noise rising from its wheels as it struggled to slow down. Amid the fury and the fumes Ivan ducked behind the van and started to run down the central reservation between the two sides of the M3.

Matram pulled himself back out of the seat, then threw open the window. He jumped down on to the tarmac, then looked back down the road. A hundred yards ahead, he could see Ivan disappearing down the centre of the road. Then he could hear a screeching of brakes, as he watched Ivan running across the three lanes of motorway.

Whether he made it to the other side, it was impossible to say. He vanished into a blizzard of cars and lorries and, through the roaring traffic, Matram could see nothing.

Pointer was kneeling down at the side of the track. His hands were running through the gravel, the same way a farmer might run his hands through the soil. 'Here,' he said simply. 'We prepare right here.'

Matt looked behind him. Damien was standing right next to him, and beside him were three other men.

'Where did the goon squad come from?' asked Matt.

'Keith, Perry and Archie,' said Pointer. 'Keith is my other son,' he said, nodding to a man in his twenties with cropped hair, a thick beer gut and a row of tattoos running up his forearm. 'Not a nice quiet boy like Harry. Keith's got a mean streak in him. He was a nasty toddler, and stayed that way ever since. Perry,' he continued, nodding to a man in his forties, with strapping muscles, a huge torso and eyes that shone out of his dark face like two white pearls. 'Perry was with me in Brixton. His best friend got a good hiding at the hands of the SAS. And Archie,' he went on, nodding to a smaller man, nearing fifty, with red hair and a crimson, freckled complexion. 'Archie has come down from Glasgow specially to have a crack at your old mates. He was in Shotts maximum-security prison all through the nineties and it seems your boys mixed it up there as well. It's personal.'

Matt nodded. All three of them were dressed in the bright yellow tunics of railway workers. Matt didn't like the look of any of them. But there was a rule you learnt early in the regiment. In a desperate fight, the enemy of your enemy was your friend. That had never been more true than it was today.

'Gentlemen,' he said, 'when you're all ready, we can begin.'

Matt knelt down by the side of the track, next to Pointer. He was deep in the gully of the tracks, looking down at the rails. They'd chosen this spot because the steep banks from the side of the tracks meant it was not overlooked. The pebbles felt hot to his touch, and the steel of the signal towers had heated up during the midday sun. From the slight vibration on the line, he could tell there was a train coming, but it was still at least a couple of minutes away.

The junction box was at the bottom of the tower. It was protected by a simple padlock. Pointer held it between his fingers. He jabbed the screwdriver into the box, and yanked hard, breaking it free. In front of him, there was a collection of colour-coded wire. The signal was a standard three-light box: one green, one yellow, one red. He needed Lacrierre's train to slow down, as if there was a possibility of a hazard ahead. For that, he needed a red flash, a yellow flash, another yellow flash, then a green flash. 'It's like Morse code,' said Pointer. 'Once you know it, railway codes are simple enough.'

The vibration on the track was growing louder. Pointer slammed the box shut, rolling away from the rails, hiding himself in the dried-out row of bushes that lined the banks of the line. The train started to shunt past, travelling at thirty miles an hour. Matt glanced upwards, looking out at the sweaty rows of commuters. Behind him, the rest of the men were already lying down, protected by the scrubland growing on the side of the banks.

'Job done,' said Pointer, backing away from the track. 'I'll set it back to normal now, for the time being, then back to the red and yellow flashes when the Frenchman's train is due.'

The phone in his pocket was ringing. Matt punched the green button, holding it to his ear. 'Yes?'

'Matt, we've been compromised.'

He recognised the soft Irish accent but not the tone. Ivan had always been calm, unflapped, even in the midst of the hardest battles. Now he sounded rattled, scared, shot up by nerves.

'What happened?'

'They picked me up,' he continued. 'I told them what hotel you were at, what your false names were.'

Matt felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach: he could feel the breath emptying out of him.

'Why the hell… '

'I had no choice,' said Ivan angrily. 'I needed to buy some time. I knew you'd be gone by now. And Eleanor is with you, right?'

'That's my life you're gambling with,' said Matt, his tone rising. 'And Eleanor's.'

'Eleanor is with you, isn't she?' asked Ivan.

'She's meant to be on her way over to Battersea.' Matt looked around him. Pointer and Damien were discussing some of the finer details of the ambush. 'I'll try to get hold of her.'

'Do that, they might be on her trail,' said Ivan, sounding tense. 'If they get hold of her, they'll…' The words faded away on his lips.

Matt punched the red button on the phone, then dialled the Holiday Inn Express, asking to be put straight through to Keith Todd's room. The phone range twelve times, with no answer, before Matt was put through to an automated answering machine. 'To leave a message for this guest please press the star button twice…' started the computer.

Matt killed the line, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Eleanor was out there somewhere, alone, vulnerable. He knew he would not feel calm until he could hold her in his arms again.

Matt looked up into the burning hot sky.

I got her into this mess, and it's up to me to get her out again.

Matram held the sheet up to his nose. It was crumpled, with traces of sweat left in it, and the musty aroma of a bed that had been shared by a man and a woman.

Dogs had the right idea, he reflected. Once you had the smell of your prey, then it couldn't elude you.

'When did they leave?' he snapped, looking across at the manager.

David Plant was in his late twenties, thin, cheerful, and with an overeager-to-please manner that suggested he had spent too much time on Holiday Inn customer-service courses. 'I can't say exactly,' he replied. 'Holiday Inn has an automated check-in service. We introduced it last year under our 'Your Choice, Your Style' customer-service programme. It's very popular with the guests, and obviously it cuts back on check-in staff as well, so it generates value for…'

Matram stepped forward, pausing, then leaning into Plant's face. 'I don't give a fuck about your customer-service programme,' he barked. 'If I was looking for cockroaches, this is where I'd start. As it happens I'm looking for two terrorist suspects, a man and a woman. Now, did you see them?'

Plant looked around nervously. Matram was flanked by Harton and Godsall.

'The man left this morning, the woman just over an hour ago,' he said, his face turning red. 'The room was already paid for.'

'They talk to anyone?'

'No.'

'Meet anyone?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Bring anything into or out of the hotel?'

Plant shook his head. 'If they did, I didn't see it.'

'How about phone calls?'

'They got some calls, yes,' said Plant, his tone turning more hopeful. 'Two at least.'

'Now you tell me,' Matram snapped. 'Can we access the records of who called?'

'Oh, yes, the new computer system automatically logs incoming and outgoing calls,' said Plant. 'It's part of a programme designed…'

'Just get me the bloody numbers,' roared Matram.

He followed Plant down the one flight of stairs towards the lobby. Plant politely asked the receptionist to take a break, then logged on to the computer. He started tapping into the keyboard, looking back up at Matram.

'This number,' he said. 'It called the room twice. 07456 291186.'

Matram grabbed his own mobile and punched in one of the eight pre-set numbers, one for each member of the Increment. He spelt out the eleven digits he had just been given. 'I want a trace on that mobile,' he snapped. 'Immediately.'

The phone still at his side, Matram paced around the room. He wiped a bead of sweat away from his forehead, then grabbed a glass of water from the lobby desk, throwing it down his throat.

A mobile number, he thought to himself. The idiot. He doesn't realise that we can track incoming calls, and if he's carrying the same phone he used for those calls, then he might as well be carrying a big flag with a target sign on it. Your first big mistake, Browning. We can take you down the same way we'd take down a fly in this room.

'Yes?' he said, putting the phone back up to his ear. 'You've got it?' He paused, waiting for the reply. 'Where is he?' Matram nodded, a smile breaking out over his lips. 'We've got him,' he said, looking at Harton and Godsall. 'Same mobile.'

'Battersea?' said Harton, sounding puzzled. 'What's he doing there?'

'We'll find out when we get him,' said Matram. 'But you know what I think.' He paused, slipping his mobile back into his trouser pocket. 'I reckon the bastard is going for the train.'