by Chris Ryan
When this job is done, I'm getting back to the Spanish coast. I need some sea air.
The drive back from Dorset had taken him two hours. Another forty-eight hours, he would be on his way to the Ukraine. He needed some sleep. He checked the 1571 service on the phone. One message. Gill, he told himself. It's three days now since I spoke to her. That woman can sulk, but her tempers rarely stretch past thirty or forty hours.
He pressed one and listened to the message.
It took a moment before he recognised the voice: the muffled hysteria made it hard to make out exactly what she was saying.
'Matt, it's Eleanor here.' The voice broke up, and Matt could hear the sobbing on the line. 'Matt, I'm so angry. There isn't even going to be a proper funeral. We went to collect Ken's body from the hospital. But when we got there, he'd already been cremated. They said they were sorry, they had made a mistake, then they handed me this little pot of ashes.'
Another pause on the line, and Matt wondered if she might have ended the message there. Then it started up again. 'They burned him, Matt. Ken always wanted to be buried, I wanted to give him a proper funeral, but they took his body and they burned it. And all they could give me was this stupid little pot of fucking ashes. That's all I have left of him now.'
Matt put the phone down, and laid his head down on the pillow, not even bothering to take his clothes off.
SEVEN
The room was barren of any decoration or ornamentation. The walls were painted a faded, dingy magnolia, with a single tacky picture of a waterfall pinned above the simple wooden desk. There were two chairs, and a sofa that looked as if it had been picked up for a few pounds in a bankruptcy sale. An ashtray, unwashed, and with a pair of stale butts in it, was still sitting on the desk.
Corporations, intelligence agencies, armies, they're all the same, decided Matt. They like to keep the dirty work off the premises.
The office was part of an old warehouse building converted into a maze of tiny, serviced offices in one of the streets off Acton Green in west London: about half the rooms were empty, and the other half were occupied by web designers, sales companies, and businesses that looked as if they had no other role than printing up stationery and cards. It was only a few miles from the Tocah headquarters, but could have been in a different country. That building reeked of power, money and success. And this one? The only words you could put next to it were struggle, poverty and defeat.
'Did your friend say he'd do the job?' said Orlena. She sat down at the desk, opening a folder of papers. Her legs were crossed neatly, but her brown suede shoes were hanging off the end of her toes.
'No,' replied Matt. 'He told me to get stuffed.'
A look of pleasure swept across Orlena's face. 'Just as well. I would prefer you were the only Westerner on this job.'
'He'll be along in a minute,' said Matt. 'He's a moody bugger. Says he won't do something, then he does.'
'Like a woman, perhaps?'
Matt grinned and glanced down at his watch. Eleven ten. True, Ivan had shown no interest in the job. Still, as Matt had left, he'd given him the address and time of the meeting with Orlena. In his gut, Matt felt that Ivan would be here.
Ivan's a bridge player, Matt reminded himself. That's all you need to know about the man. Once the hand is dealt, he has to see how the tricks play out.
'We should start,' said Orlena. 'I need to be back at Tocah by lunchtime, and our plane leaves tomorrow.'
'Two minutes,' said Matt.
He could see the irritation in the way Orlena knotted her eyebrows together. A forced smile stretched across her lips, but there was no mystery to what she was thinking: she doesn't want Ivan to be involved, and she doesn't mind if I know it. She was a woman used to getting her own way, and that applied to men in particular.
'No more,' snapped Orlena. 'There are plenty of explosives experts in the Ukraine. If not this man, another will do just as well.'
At the buzz on the intercom, Matt walked swiftly towards the door. Ivan stood in the hallway, casting a quizzical eye over the dimly lit corridor. 'I'd have thought Tocah could afford something better.'
'They can,' replied Matt grinning. 'This is just for the hired muscle. They like to keep us off the premises. In case we scare anyone.'
Ivan nodded. 'At least we'll feel at home.'
Orlena stepped forward and shook Ivan by the hand. He was a tall, thin man, with short black hair cropped close to his head. She let go of his hand, and walked around him, her eyes running across him as if he were a slab of meat lying on a butcher's counter. 'Matt says you're the best,' she said to Ivan, her expression questioning. 'At explosives, I mean.'
'I wouldn't say that,' said Ivan, sitting down on one of the two available chairs. 'There's better than me out there. But I know one end of a stick of Semtex from the other. And I used to work with an outfit across the water. They're out of business now, of course. But they used to know a bit about blowing things up.'
Orlena nodded, glancing up towards Matt. 'I don't think this will be acceptable to Mr Lacrierre,' she said. 'Tocah is one of the most respectable pharmaceuticals companies in the world. We can't be seen to be employing terrorists.'
'Ah well, we always thought of ourselves as freedom fighters.'
'If it ever came out that we had such a man on the payroll, the scandal would be too much.' She looked towards Ivan. 'Thank you for coming here today. But I'm afraid we can't use you.'
'Drop the corporate bollocks,' snapped Matt. 'If Lacrierre is so concerned about his bloody image, then tell him not to ask people to blow up factories. There's no nice way of doing it. Either we do this right, or we don't do it at all.'
Orlena glared up at him. 'I've already told you, we can find an explosives expert in Kiev.'
Matt stood up. 'Have you ever blown anything up?'
Orlena shook her head.
'Or taken part in any kind of military operation?'
Orlena's hair flicked down across her face as she shook her head again.
'Then you have no fucking idea what you're talking about,' growled Matt, his cheeks reddening with anger. 'So just try and use your bloody imagination. This might be a surprise to you, but bombs are bloody dangerous. You don't just want some tosser you met yesterday letting them off. You either get the right guy handling the fireworks, or you might as well start ordering the coffins. Clear? Either he comes, or we all go home. And I don't care what threats the Firm make. I can handle them.'
A silence hung between them. Orlena looked first at Ivan then at Matt, her lashes half covering her eyes. 'You can guarantee his role will never be revealed?'
'I'm not telling anyone,' said Ivan with a shrug.
'Neither am I,' said Matt.
'Then I suppose you're on the team,' said Orlena, collecting up her bag. 'We'll pay you five thousand pounds a day, cash, for your time, starting tomorrow. Plus expenses. I'll book you a ticket for the plane.' She walked towards the door. 'I'll see you both at the airport tomorrow.'
Matt took up the sheet of paper she had left behind her. They were catching the two-twenty BA flight from Heathrow to Kiev tomorrow. It was two hours later that far east, so the plane touched down at seven forty. She'd booked an apartment for them already.
The deal was set. There was no turning back now.
'Thanks,' said Matt, as Ivan started to walk away. 'I thought you'd come.'
'One piece of advice,' said Ivan, turning round to look at Matt. 'Don't sleep with her.'
Matt paused. 'I wasn't planning to,' he said. 'I just want to get out there, get the factory blown, and get back to my life.'
'She's trouble,' said Ivan. 'And the closer you get, the more trouble you'll be in.'
The car park at Brent Cross shopping centre in north London was crowded with early-evening shoppers, some of the women waddling back from the mall laden with bags, others struggling to find somewhere to park amid the sea of Mondeos and Astras.
Matram squeezed the Lexus into a spot, slammed the door
shut, and looked out across the grey, stained concrete. Floor Three, Zone W, he had told them to meet him at. He could see them now, a man and a woman climbing out from a pale green Renault Clio. Andy Turnton, and Jackie Snaddon.
Two of my best. They won't let me down.
He nodded in their direction. Turnton and Snaddon walked across to the Lexus, while Matram spread a map out on the bonnet. They were in clear view, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. Car parks were a perfect venue, because you could guarantee that nobody would ever notice anything. Too busy searching for their car.
'The target's name is Ben Weston,' said Matram coldly. 'He works here as a night security guard. His shift starts at nine, and carries on to four in the morning. That's when the cleaners come in, and he and the night guards knock off.'
'Has he got a regular patrol?' asked Turnton.
Matram nodded, pointing down to the map. It showed the outlines of the mall, detailing the shops and corridors on each level. Weston was assigned to the third floor, with a stretch that ran between W.H. Smith and Marks & Spencer. There were eighteen night guards in total, but most evenings at least three of them called in sick. Mall guards were on minimum wage, and most a lot poorer than the robbers they were defending the mall from. Reliability couldn't be bought so cheaply.
'Use a knife,' said Matram. 'Any kind of noise is going to bring the whole troop of them down on you.'
'How tough is he?'
Matram glanced across at Snaddon. She was the plainer of the two women in the Increment. Her brown hair was cropped short, her hips were slightly too wide, and her legs slightly too short. But her eyes made up for it. They were clear, and bright green, and as hard as tiny pellets of granite.
'Not as tough as you, Jackie,' answered Matram, his face creasing into a rare smile. 'He never saw any real action. And he won't be expecting you.'
'And the body?' asked Turnton.
'When he's dead, carry it back to the boot of your car,' said Matram. 'I'll give you instructions on how to dispose of it later. I don't want traces left behind. And I don't want any corpses turning up later. Just a commonplace case of a man disappearing from the face of the earth, never to be seen again.'
Eleanor was stirring a single sachet of sugar into her latte. A bead of sweat was dripping from her brow: the temperature had hit forty during the day, and showed no sign of cooling off as the evening progressed. It was just after seven and the Starbucks on Southampton Row just around the corner from Matt's flat had emptied out. The office workers had all hit the pubs, and the tourists were back in their hotel rooms. Apart from one Japanese couple, the place was empty.
'Somebody killed him,' said Matt, opening the bottle of orange juice he'd just bought.
Eleanor looked back up at him. She looked even more determined. Matt had seen that look once or twice before in a woman and he had learnt to respect it: she had the appearance of someone who had set out her path, and was not about to stray from it.
'That's what you think?'
Matt shrugged. 'I think it looks suspicious.'
'No autopsy.'
Matt leant forward on the small wooden table. 'You think that might have revealed something?'
'I don't know,' she replied. 'All I know is that something happened to Ken. Something to make him go mad.'
'Did you get a chance to check out any of the other cases?'
'I've spent the day doing just that. I looked up what units they had served in and tried to get hold of their commanding officers. No luck. Both of them said they couldn't discuss that, and put the phone down on me.'
'That's the army for you,' said Matt. 'Never apologise, never explain, particularly with civilians.'
'Then I tried the GPs,' persisted Eleanor. 'I didn't expect the officers to tell me much, but I thought the local doctors might know something. I tried Sam Mentorn's GP first, but the guy had only registered with the surgery, he had never actually been in for any treatment. She didn't know anything about him. Next I tried David Helton's GP. He'd been in for a foot injury about a year ago, but since then nothing. The doctor said he'd been in touch with the local police after the incident to see if he could help out with anything, but they didn't seem very interested. He didn't know of any similar episodes, and couldn't think of anything else he could help me with.' Eleanor looked up. 'All the doors are slamming shut in my face, Matt.'
'There's no evidence of a link,' said Matt. 'I mean, it could just be the hot weather. It's making me a bit crazy, that's for sure.'
'That's different,' replied Eleanor. 'Hot weather causes panic and anxiety attacks, particularly in people with high blood pressure. That's because of all the extra work the body has to do to stay cool. But there's quite a difference between an anxiety attack, and driving a car into a group of shoppers.' Her hand reached across the table. 'I'm sorry to do this to you, Matt, but you're the only person I know who's familiar with the military.'
Matt could feel her skin touching his. 'You want me to ask around?'
'Somebody, somewhere, must know something,' she said softly. 'If these incidents are linked, then we can't be the only people who've noticed.'
'I'll do what I can,' replied Matt. 'But I can't promise anything. Who knows, maybe it is just a coincidence?'
'Maybe,' said Eleanor, draining the last of her coffee. 'And maybe we'll put our minds at rest.'
EIGHT
The façade of the apartment building dated back to the nineteenth century, one of the magnificent old tsarist buildings that lined the main streets of Kiev. But inside, the apartment had been completely modernised. Its pale blue carpet looked as if it had never been stepped on, and the paintwork was unblemished.
'I've booked this place for as long as we might need it,' said Orlena as they stepped through the door. 'It'll be our base until the job is finished.'
Better than a barracks. We're going up in the world.
Matt had no idea what part of Kiev he might be in. Somewhere near the centre, judging by the ride into the town. They had touched down at Borispol airport ten minutes early after a smooth flight of just over three hours, and a car had been waiting to bring them into the city. Neither Matt nor Ivan had packed much gear. A spare pair of jeans, some shirts, and a leather jacket in case it was cooler in Kiev than it was in London.
Whatever kit we need for this job, we will source it locally.
'When do we start?' asked Matt.
'Tomorrow,' said Orlena. 'Tonight we sleep, then in the morning we get down to work.'
Matt checked out his bedroom. A small double bed, with a plain blue duvet, and a small lamp. There was nothing on the walls, and no books or magazines. We kip, we fight and then we go home.
'Time for a beer, though,' he said, stepping into the sitting room. 'Where can you get a drink around here?'
'Or a game of chess?' said Ivan.
Orlena looked at him with interest. 'You play?'
Ivan shrugged. 'If I was in Spain, I'd go to a bullfight, if I was in America I'd watch baseball. Chess is the national game, right? Ruslan Ponomariov beat Vasilly Ivanchuk to become the youngest FIDE world champion in history last year. He was just eighteen. So I'd say Kiev was the kind of place you might find a game of chess.'
'People think chess is a Russian game,' said Orlena. 'They're wrong. It's a Ukrainian game. All the best players are Ukrainian.' They stepped out into the street. It had just got dark, and only a few cars were making their way down the street: cheap twelve-year-old VWs and Toyotas mostly, broken up with the occasional gleaming new Mercedes.