The Increment

FIVE

The tower of glass, steel and chrome rose high into the sky. It was on the A4 heading out to Heathrow. The dazzling noon sun caught the side of the building, sending down shafts of brightly coloured, refracted light. As Matt stepped out of the taxi, he pulled his shades down close over his eyes, wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow, and stepped quickly towards the entrance.

Stay out in this heat for more than a few seconds and you start frying like a slice of bacon.

A blast of fresh air conditioning hit him in the face as he walked through the revolving glass doors. Briefly, he could feel his head spinning as the temperature plunged. He paused, recaptured his focus, then looked across to the receptionist.

'I'm here to see Mr Lacrierre,' he said. 'I have an appointment for twelve.'

The girl looked back up at him. 'And you are?'

'Browning,' he replied. 'Matt Browning.' He was dressed in cream chinos, a blue linen shirt and tasselled loafers. She had probably thought at first that Matt was just a delivery guy. Not a man with an appointment to see the chairman.

'Would you like to take a seat?'

Same as any organisation. When they know you're talking to the top guy, suddenly they treat you with respect.

He sat down on one of the black leather sofas that stretched along the side of the foyer. Straight in front of him, a poster hit him in the eye. A group of smiling African, Chinese and European children were clustered in groups. Some text down below described how the company had been donating vaccines for children in developing countries as part of its social responsibility programme. TOCAH LIFE SCIENCES ran the slogan. BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER FOR A BETTER TOMORROW.

I reckon at this place a man has to eat his way through a plateful of corporate bullshit for breakfast every morning.

'Mr Browning?'

Matt looked up. She was a tall, striking woman, with auburn hair tumbling down the side of her face. Her cheekbones were high, and delicately sculpted, and her clear blue eyes shone out of her lightly-tanned face. How many men fall in love with you every day?

'I'm Natalie,' she said in a slight French accent, her lips pursing together elegantly as she spoke. 'One of the chairman's personal assistants.'

One of? There can't be many more like you.

Matt found it impossible not to follow the slow swaying of her hips as she led him into the lift. As the door closed, he caught the fragrance of her perfume drifting from her neck. On the tenth floor there was an additional layer of security. The lift stopped, and two guards steered you through a metal detector before catching another lift up to the top floors. One of the guards wanted to take the back off Mart's mobile phone, but he told him to hold on to it. He'd pick it up on the way out.

He stood to the back of the lift, admiring the curve of her arm as she pressed the button for the twelfth floor. 'Here,' said Natalie, as the doors slid open.

Lacrierre's suite of offices occupied the entire top floor of the building, looking out over London to the east, and Heathrow airport to the west. Matt could see the planes cruising low through the sky as they prepared to land, but the office had total soundproofing.

'The chairman will see you in about five minutes.'

The speaker this time was blonde, about six foot, wearing a red trouser suit, and with a harsh, metallic edge to her accent. Scandinavian, perhaps, reckoned Matt. Or one of the small Baltic states. Natalie seemed to have faded away, disappearing behind an oak writing table, where she was looking up at a black, flat-panel computer screen.

'Would you like to wait over here?' continued the blonde, pointing towards a tanned leather armchair. 'Can I get you a coffee?'

Matt nodded and sat down, casting his eyes over the collection of newspapers on the coffee table: the FT, Wall Street Journal, Le Monde, and the New York Times. Then he looked back towards the reception desk. Next to Natalie and the blonde, there was another girl, Chinese, tall and slim, wearing a white dress, and with a single gold and diamond necklace.

Christ. This guy's running a harem up here.

Matt had read through a collection of profiles of Lacrierre that morning. He was forty-seven and had set up Tocah twenty years earlier. It now had sales of twelve billion pounds a year, profits of two million, and the stock market valued the business at nearly thirty billion. Lacrierre still owned a third of the business. He was born in Lyons, an only child, and joined the French Army, then the elite First Paratroopers Marine Infantry Regiment, popularly known as the Marsouins: the unit specialised in beach assaults and was the most common recruiting ground for the French equivalent of the SAS.

But he served only six years, retiring when he was twenty-five to restart his career as a businessman. He made some money dabbling in property, then started Tocah in 1984, just as biotechnology was turning into a big business. He had been married and divorced twice, had two children by the first wife, and one by the second. According to the papers, he was supposed to be dating a French singer, Nadine Riboud.

If I was Nadine, I'd be watching these secretaries.

'He'll see you now.'

The blonde led the way. Matt followed her through the short glass passageway that led towards the main office. The floor was covered in thick, black stone, and the walls were made from a translucent glass that gathered up light from the entire building. A pair of modern pictures hung on the back wall — maybe a Chagall, Matt couldn't be quite sure — flanking a desk constructed out of a solid granite plinth and a thin sheet of burnished aluminium. On top of it, there was a pair of black Bloomberg terminals, showing real-time share and currency prices from the financial markets.

Lacrierre stood up, walking briskly across to Matt. His handshake was firm: two decades after leaving the services, he still carried himself like a military man. He had thick, curly black hair, greying a touch around the edges, worn so that it was hanging just below the collar of his shirt. The accent was stranded somewhere between Washington and Paris, Matt noticed: mid-Atlantic, but a mix of French and American.

'I'm pleased to see you.'

A Rupert, or a Jean-Pierre, it makes no difference, thought Matt. They're all the same.

'You too,' said Matt.

Lacrierre gestured towards a pair of suede black sofas in the corner of the room. The centre of the office featured a clear square of glass, twelve feet by twelve, cut in the floor and replicated on each floor below. Looking down, you could see all twelve floors of the headquarters building spread out below you.

Good to be able to keep an eye on the ants.

'You are two years out of the regiment, yes?' said Lacrierre, pouring himself a glass of Vittel mineral water from the bottle on the coffee table between the two sofas.

Matt nodded.

'And you served tours in Bosnia, in Ulster and in South-East Asia. You must have seen many things. I should like to hear about them one day.'

Matt poured himself a glass of water. Moving from the heat of the day to the chill of an air-conditioned building had left his throat raw and dry. 'That's off-limits,' he said. 'Regiment rules. We don't talk about our work to outsiders.'

Lacrierre nodded, a smile spreading over his lips. 'I quite understand. Maybe when we get to know each other better.'

'Look, I'll be frank with you,' said Matt, leaning forward. 'I don't want to be here. The Firm are twisting my arm. You've got some kind of pull with them. I don't know what it is, but it must be bloody good, because I'm being hit hard. So here I am. I'll do the job, and I'll do it well. Then I'm out of here, OK.'

'I respect your honesty, Matt,' said Lacrierre. 'I'm a businessman, I have no time for flattery. As you come to know me, you'll learn the truth of that. But I suspect your view will soften as well. Maybe as you come to know me, I'll appear less of a monster.'

'Perhaps,' said Matt tersely. 'We'll see.'

Lacrierre leant forward. 'Come on, let's go and meet Orlena.'

'Who's that?'

Lacrierre stood up grinning. 'She's your new assistant,' he said, dropping a hint of mischief into his tone. 'And let me tell you, you're a luckier man than you probably appreciate.' He pressed a button on the top of the table. 'Send her in.'

As the door slid open, Orlena walked into the room with the kind of swagger Matt had rarely seen in a woman. At first he suspected she was just another of the painted airheads he'd seen staffing the reception desk, but a moment later he could see that was a mistake. She walked in not just as if she owned the place, he noticed, but as if she was about to order you from the premises as well.

'Shall I start?' she said glancing across to Lacrierre.

He looked across at Matt. 'Orlena started out in research. She did a doctorate in biochemistry at Kiev University, and joined Tocah five years ago as a research scientist. In the last year, she has switched to working on corporate security. The people we're up against are smart and sophisticated. It's no good just fighting them with muscle. We need brains as well. You two should make a good team.'

I might not want this job, but at least the view will be good.

At the press of the button, the monitors sprang to life. Matt settled back into his chair. Orlena had high cheekbones, and thick black hair that was cut in a sharp, straight line just below the bottom of her slim neck: she had the classical, sculpted beauty of an Eastern European. Her skin was as white as snow, unmarked by a single blemish. Her lips were thick and red, a jagged line of crimson lipstick smeared across them. And her bright blue eyes lit up the room.

Belarus, realised Matt, looking at the map that had just appeared on the screens. The country was like a small rectangle, suddenly squashed out of shape. Matt knew its reputation from his time back in the regiment: the most criminal, lawless, vicious, chaotic and dangerous of all the former Soviet republics.

The Wild East. A bunch of mafia psychos, retired KGB officers and stray nukes.

'Belarus,' said Orlena, tapping at the monitor with a burgundy-varnished fingernail. 'One of the many republics that broke away from Russia during the break-up of the Soviet Union.'

'We can skip the geography lesson,' said Matt.

Lacrierre glanced first at Matt, then at Orlena. 'He's a soldier, Orlena,' he said, his voice dropping to a low whisper that could not quite hide his irritation. 'From an elite regiment.'

Matt smiled. 'I know where Belarus is, and I also know that anyone who was thinking straight would keep well clear of it.'

Orlena turned back to the monitor, ignoring him and pressing a button on the desk. She was dressed in a thick black skirt that stopped just below her knee, and a crisp, starched white blouse that was buttoned up all the way to her neck. It was the most staid, businesslike outfit you could imagine. But somehow she managed to make it provocative.

A fresh series of images jumped on to the screen: a pile of brightly coloured pills, and a series of maps. 'In the last five years, Belarus has become the centre of the world trade in counterfeit medicines. When it was part of the Soviet Union, it was designated the hub of the pharmaceuticals industry under the old five-year plans. The result? There are lots of factories that can manufacture drugs to a reasonable standard. And there are lots of biochemists with time on their hands and no money.'

Matt admired the slender curve of her thigh as she swivelled to point at a different set of maps.

'A series of Tocah's most profitable heart-disease and cancer drugs have been targeted by the gangs. They know the formulas of our drugs, because we have to file them with the patent office. They can unlock the manufacturing process. They are using factories in Belarus to manufacture fake copies. Then they smuggle them into the West. They sell them to wholesalers, at a fraction of the real price, and they end up in the pharmacies. When you get your prescription filled, you don't know whether you are getting the real medicine or a fake. Tocah loses a sale, and the gangsters make huge profits.'

Lacrierre leant forward on the desk, looking directly at Matt. 'We estimate it's costing us a million a year, maybe a million and half, in lost profits.'

'So,' said Matt, 'what do you want me to do about it? 'I'm not a chemist.'

'But you are a soldier,' said Orlena.

'I believe Mr Luttrell has already told you we want you to take out the factory,' said Lacrierre. 'That's the only way of beating these people. It's no use talking to the politicians or the police in Belarus, they are all in the pay of the gangsters, as you know. The whole country is completely corrupt. So if we are to stop this, we need to stop it at source.'

'We need a small team of men,' says Orlena. 'I have contacts in Kiev who can put together some ex-Red Army men for back-up. But they need leadership, and military expertise. That's your job.'

Getting out of the bloody country alive, thought Matt. That's my job.

Up on the screen, Matt could see a large-scale photograph taken from the sky. It had been taken by a low-flying surveillance aircraft covering the territory at about 20,000 feet, he judged, working from the clarity of the picture. At this range, it showed a series of fields and some derelict buildings. Orlena gradually enlarged the photograph, sharpening its focus.

'This is the main factory,' said Orlena. 'It's about sixty kilometres north of Minsk, the capital of Belarus. The outside looks a mess, but the interior is in good working order. That's where the drugs are coming from. We need to get in, destroy it, then get out again.'

Lacrierre looked across at Matt. 'Money is no object,' he said. 'You can have whatever equipment you need. Just tell us what you want, and Orlena will make sure you have it.'

'How well defended is it?' asked Matt.

Orlena shrugged, her hair flicking away from her shoulders as she did so. 'We've identified this as the source of the drugs, but we haven't done detailed surveillance yet. They'll be armed, we can be sure of that. And they'll fight.' She paused, a smile suddenly creasing up her thick red lips. It was the first Matt had seen. 'But you're ex-SAS, right? You can handle anybody.'

Matt pushed back his chair, standing up. He could feel both sets of eyes following him as he walked close to the screen, looking up at the picture. They had money, nobody could deny that. To take pictures this clear from the air required expensive kit: it must be at least ten million pixels per inch on the camera to stand this kind of enlargement. Back in the regiment, you were lucky if the Ruperts nipped round to Waterstone's to buy you a map.

There were two main buildings to the complex, one of them probably a factory, the other probably a warehouse and offices. He could see the blurred outline of two trucks moving down the track towards the gate: their images on the screen were grainy and indistinct, but he could still make out the heavy grey canvas stretched across its roof.

'When was this taken?'

Orlena glanced back at her computer. 'Twelve days ago.'

'What time?'

'Just after five,' she replied carefully, her tone suggesting she was not sure he was meant to be asking so many questions. 'Five twelve, to be precise.'

Matt rested his thumb over the two trucks. 'This isn't carrying cargo, it's men,' he said flatly. 'It's a cargo truck, but they've put some canvas over the frame so guys can sit in the back. Five is close to dusk. I reckon they bring in reinforcements every night to guard the place.' He looked back towards Orlena and Lacrierre. 'This place is well defended,' he said. 'I'm going to need help.'

Lacrierre spread the palms of his hands out across the table. 'I've said, you can have whatever you want.'

'No, not money, a man,' said Matt. 'I'll do it because I have to, but let's do it right. If we're going to blow this place up, we'll need explosives expertise. I know a guy who can help us.'

Matt could see a frown starting to crinkle up the skin of Lacrierre's perfectly moistured and manicured skin. 'No,' he said quietly. 'You're the only Westerner we want on this assignment. Everyone else you can hire locally. Orlena will help you.'

'No help, no mission,' snapped Matt. He walked away from the screen, and stood a few feet from Lacrierre. 'I don't know how you run this business, but in my line, it doesn't matter what kind of kit you have or how much money you have to splash around, it's the quality of the men on the ground that counts. So, either I get my guy, or you can find someone else to burn up your pills.'

Matt paused, watching the cloud drift across Lacrierre's eyes, then slowly lift. From his time as a bodyguard right after he got out of the SAS, he knew what a strange, isolated world the men who ran big companies lived in. They were surrounded by small armies of flunkies, who spent their entire day agreeing with every crazy whim the boss came up with. They were worse than generals: whole years could go by without anyone ever disagreeing with them.

There was a pause, but Matt couldn't read it. Then Lacrierre said: 'Who is he?'

They actually like it when someone stands up to them, noted Matt.

'Irish fellow,' says Matt. 'Called Ivan. He's blown up more buildings than you've had croissants for breakfast. Don't worry, you'll like him.'

Lacrierre stood up. 'Orlena will check him out, but if it's all right with her then he's on the team.' He stopped, resting his hand on Matt's forearm. 'I've got a busy day, so I'm going to leave you and Orlena to sort out the details. Your friend will be paid, of course, and paid well. Tocah looks after its people.'

Matt nodded. 'In that case, we'll get along just fine.'

Lacrierre started to open the door, then looked back at Matt. 'I'm going to trust you on this, Matt,' he said. 'But I want you to know one thing. This organisation is not so different from your regiment. We are generous with our friends, but ruthless with our enemies.'

Matt could hear the door shutting behind him. He looked around to see Orlena sitting on the edge of the desk, tightening her skirt over her legs so that no knee was revealed. 'OK, when do we start?' he said.

'Right away, of course,' answered Orlena, sliding off the desk. 'We leave for Kiev the day after tomorrow. Once we're there, I can introduce you to the man who will start assembling the team. This factory needs to be dealt with as quickly as possible.'

Matt grinned, noticing for the first time the way her eyelashes flicked as she concentrated, and the way her skin bunched up around her cheeks as she smiled.

'I'll start packing. Let's hope it's a bit cooler in Kiev. I don't think I can take much more of this summer.'

Orlena stepped towards the door. 'Actually, the Ukraine has hot summers. Most Europeans think it snows all the time.'

'Don't worry,' said Matt. 'I can handle whatever heat you throw at me.'

Her expression changed. 'Let me get one thing straight. I never sleep with anyone who works for me. So don't even think about it.'

'I'm freelance,' said Matt coldly. 'I'm not working for you, and I'm not sleeping with you either.'

'You're a proud man, Mr Browning,' said Orlena, walking out into the brightly lit corridor.