by Chris Ryan
Orlena, Matt and Ivan stood in a small semicircle, while Malenkov sprinkled some petrol over the bodies. Malenkov crossed himself and began to chant. The words were in Ukrainian, and meant nothing to Matt, but then at his side he could hear Orlena slowly whispering them in English as well. 'Be open, O earth, and receive the body that has been created out of you. That which was in the image of God, the Creator has received, and do you receive your body?'
Malenkov tossed a match downwards. A blast of burning petroleum hit Matt in the nostrils, as the flames started to crawl over the two corpses. Malenkov turned away and started walking back towards the forest.
'Josef was my son, you know,' he said, not looking back to the others. 'His mother will never forgive me.'
Matt hesitated. He wanted to say something, but he'd seen enough men die on the battlefield to know there was nothing you could say or do. He followed Malenkov back into the forest, taking the same path they had come in by. As he walked, he was scanning the night sky, his ears listening for the hum of choppers. Nothing. All he could hear was the sound of a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees, and the crunch of their feet against the moss, twigs and dirt that made up the floor of the forest. The Land Rover was parked twenty minutes hike away, hidden among the trees, and they should be able to cover the tracks of their escape route.
The sooner we get out, the better.
'Two hours sleep, then we get moving,' said Matt looking up at Malenkov and Ivan. 'It's a long drive. We need our strength.'
The farmhouse had been empty for years, and was surrounded by thick forest. If the police found the burning factory, Matt calculated, it should be days before the search brought them here, so they were safe for a while at least. Before dawn, they would start their drive back to the Ukrainian border.
He drained the glass of vodka Malenkov had poured for him. It was after three in the morning now, and the night was at its stillest. 'I'm sorry about Josef said Matt.
Malenkov nodded, his expression remaining sombre. 'He wasn't a soldier, I shouldn't have brought him,' said Malenkov. 'But we needed the money.'
'The families of the other men who died?' asked Matt.
'They'll be contacted in due course,' answered Malenkov. 'I'll get someone to speak to them.'
'And make sure they get paid.'
Matt walked down the corridor towards his bedroom. His kitbag was still in the corner of the room, and the mattress was lying on the floor. He unpeeled his T-shirt, chucking it to one side. A line of red blood ran along his left arm where he had cut himself, stretching for about eight inches, with a thin scab already starting to cover it.
He took a cup of water from the sink, dipped a tissue into the water, and began to press it against the cut, breaking open the scab. He winced as he did so. The water stung the blood, sending a bolt of pain jabbing up through his arm.
'Here, let me do that for you,' whispered Orlena, suddenly appearing at his side.
He looked round. She had a bottle of vodka in her hand, its cap already unscrewed.
'I already had a drink, thanks,' said Matt.
'Not for drinking.'
Orlena poured some of the vodka on to the tissue, and started to run it along the length of the wound. 'Neat vodka is just about pure alcohol,' she said. 'It makes a good disinfectant.'
Matt tried to relax the muscles in his arm. He could feel his skin starting to sting as the alcohol rubbed into the raw flesh. Orlena worked softly and surprisingly tenderly, dabbing at his skin with the tissue, careful not to make it any more painful than it had to be.
When it was done, she put the bottle down on the floor. Next, he could feel Orlena's soft hands caressing his chest. She took his fist, and pushed it inside her trousers.
'I'm cut, and I'm tired,' he said, looking into her eyes. 'And we just killed a dozen or more men.'
'I don't care,' she replied, pushing him down, and stretching her legs over his. 'Like I told you, we fuck the way I want, when I want to, or not at all.'
Matt lay in her arms, his passion spent and exhausted. He could feel her long legs curling around his and, although the mattress and the single blanket were rough and worn, her skin felt fresh, soft and new next to his. As the first glimmers of dawn started to break shards of light through the window, he held her closely to him, enjoying the smell of her breath, and the taste of her lips.
In her company, even the blood of the men who had died during the night was starting to fade from his memory.
'I know so little about you.'
Orlena shrugged her shoulders. 'I'm a woman,' she replied. 'I'm lying in your bed. What more do you need to know?'
Matt laughed, realising there was something girlish about his line of questioning. Still, she fascinates me. I want to know more about her. 'Family?'
'Everyone's got one of those.'
'In the Ukraine?'
'No, in New York,' snapped Orlena, anger flashing up into her eyes. 'My dad's chairman of Goldman Sachs.' She rolled over on to her side.
'You must have someone,' persisted Matt, his fingers running down the delicate outline of her spine.
'Nobody.'
'Parents, brothers, sisters?'
Orlena shook her head, and although he could not see her face he sensed she was sad: it was written into the tensing of her shoulder blades, and the way her neck was sagging on to the pillow. 'My parents are dead. I have one brother. Roman.'
'Do you see much of him?'
Orlena turned round, lying flat on her back, her arms folded across her supple, white breasts. 'He fought in Afghanistan, for the Soviets,' she said. 'After he came back, he was, well, never quite the same.'
'Happens to a lot of guys,' said Matt. 'I still have nightmares myself, we all do. It doesn't matter what anyone says, men aren't designed to kill other men. It damages all of us.'
'What else are they designed for?'
'I'll show you.'
Matt leant over and kissed her lips, feeling a wave of pleasure roll through him as her tongue flicked up to meet his.
THIRTEEN
Eleanor looked at Matt suspiciously: he had seen several different expressions on her face in the few times they had met – anger, fear, grief, laughter – but this was the first time he had seen suspicion. Up until now, he felt she trusted him. Now he wasn't so sure.
'What is it you do, exactly, Matt?'
Matt looked away. 'I run a bar and restaurant,' he replied. 'On the coast, just outside Marbella. You should come down sometime.'
'No, really,' she repeated.
Matt paused. They were meeting in the Feathered Crown, a pub along the river just down from Hammersmith Bridge. It was still hot, even though it was after eight, and most of the drinkers were sitting outside, stripped down to their T-shirts and bikini tops, drinking pint after pint of beer to stay cool. He and Eleanor had stayed inside: there was more shade, it was quieter, and nobody was likely to overhear their conversation.
'I've told you, I was in the regiment,' said Matt. 'They never let you leave entirely.'
'Do you think maybe you have issues with letting go, Matt?' said Eleanor, turning serious. 'That's quite a common psychological reaction, particularly with men who have been very committed to one career. After it ends, they have trouble focusing on the next thing.'
'Actually, I think they have problems letting go of me.' Matt took a sip on his beer. 'What did you find out?'
'There's been another one.'
The words were delivered calmly, but Matt could see a clear tremble of her lower lip as she spoke. Not as tough as she makes out.
'Where? Who?'
'A man called Ken Topley. Lived in Ipswich, in a block of bedsits. He was doing some part-time building work. He got up in the middle of the night, and started attacking the other people in the block with a knife. Killed two people, injured three more, then tried to kill himself. Cut open his wrists but he was overpowered when the police arrived. He's at the local hospital now, under heavy sedation, and
on life support.'
'Was he a soldier?'
'Parachute Regiment. Did eight years, and got out two years ago. Divorced last year, with one kid. He didn't seem to have any kind of steady job, and he'd been skipping on child-support payments. But no history of mental illness.'
'Can you go and see him?'
Eleanor shook her head. 'I've asked, but they're clamming up. Ipswich Hospital say he is under police guard. No visitors. So I said I was interested in examining him for some research on mental traumas involving ex-servicemen.'
Matt looked up, suddenly interested. 'Did they listen?'
'They bit my head off.' Eleanor drained the orange juice in her glass. 'They told me a request like that would have to go through official NHS channels. I went to my supervisor at the hospital, but she just kicked me upstairs. Apparently, a request like that had to be made through the regional health authority.'
'Let me guess,' said Matt. 'They weren't helpful.'
'They told me to stop wasting my time,' she said. A tired note of despair was starting to creep into her voice. 'A waste of NHS funds, they said. I don't think I can go much further, Matt. I've got a set of suspicious circumstances, and then nothing. Nobody will help me, nobody will tell me anything about these men. I'm about ready to drop it.'
Matt reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. 'No,' he said firmly. 'Don't give up – not until we've checked everything.'
'I don't know where to go next.'
'There's one more man we can try. He's called Sam Hepher. He was your brother's sergeant back in the forces. A friend of mine, Keith Picton, left me his number on my answer machine last night. Keith knows everyone on the circuit. Says Hepher will speak to us tonight.'
Across the table, Matt could see Eleanor's eyes suddenly sparkle: it was as if a light had been switched on inside her. 'Then let's see him.'
Matt could see the shock on Sam Hepher's face. Like most old soldiers, he was used to death. He'd seen it enough times, its power to surprise had been eroded over time. If I just told him Ken was dead, it would hardly register. But a murderer? That was something Hepher was finding it hard to deal with.
'Ken wouldn't do something like that,' he said slowly.
They were sitting in a Portakabin at the back of a building site in Harrow. Hepher had been out of the army for two years, and was now working for his cousin's building firm, organising the security for the site. Usually he'd be at home by now, but the night guard had called in sick, so Hepher was doing the shift himself.
'That's why we're trying to find out everything we can,' said Eleanor. 'We want to know if something happened to Ken, maybe when he was still in the army?'
'It's funny,' said Hepher. 'I heard of another ex-serviceman who went crazy recently. A guy called Simon Turnbull.'
For a moment, Matt even wondered if Eleanor was about to jump out of her seat. 'There have been several,' she said quickly. 'We're trying to figure out if they might be linked.'
Matt looked closely at Hepher. They were sitting opposite him, with a single forty-watt light bulb shining down on them. He was a neatly dressed man, with crisp white chinos, the seam perfectly ironed, and a plain blue polo shirt. The desk was organised and tidy, even the copy of the Daily Mail neatly folded away before he started talking. A line was creasing up his forehead as he burrowed his head in concentration.
He's trying to decide how much to tell us.
'There was something that struck me. It might be nothing.'
Eleanor leant forward in her chair. 'Tell us.'
'About five years ago, Ken took part in some tests. Medical tests. There's a test facility on an airfield down in Wiltshire called the Farm. Heavily guarded, all very hush-hush, but the Ministry of Defence used it to test out new products. A lot of the anti-biological warfare agents used in the Iraq war were tested there.' He paused, glancing towards Matt. 'Anyway, they needed some volunteers. You know what it's like, Matt, soldiers never like to take part in that kind of thing. They think it's all bollocks. Most of them would rather face the enemy than a doctor. So it was my job to rustle up some enthusiasm among the men. Blackman needed some leave, so he could get married, and have some money to pay for the honeymoon. So off he went. Everyone who took part got extra leave, plus five hundred quid. Enough for a fortnight in Spain. He was only there a week, and seemed fine when he came back. He said they just gave them a few pills, but he couldn't talk about what they were for.'
'And now this,' said Eleanor.
Hepher leant back in his chair. 'I wouldn't have thought anything of it,' he continued. 'But that other fellow, Simon Turnbull. He was there the same week, doing the same tests.'
Matt gripped both the coffees in one hand, and walked back towards Eleanor. She was sitting by herself, alone at the row of tables outside the bar that flanked the ticket office to the Waterloo Eurostar terminal.
'What do you think it means?' he asked, putting the coffees down.
Eleanor dabbed a bead of sweat from her forehead. All around them, people were rushing for the last train of the day to Paris. 'It's connected,' she said firmly. 'Has to be.'
They had driven back from Harrow straight to the station: Matt had agreed to meet up with Orlena and Lacrierre just before the latter left for France. Matt and Eleanor were turning over what they had just heard, neither wanting to talk.
'It could just be a coincidence,' said Matt. 'The army tests drugs on the squaddies all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean anything.'
'I know, I know,' she muttered. 'People suffering from trauma or grief often start believing in conspiracy theories. It's all textbook stuff. The Freudians would tell us it's just a way of the subconscious struggling to come to terms with the loss.' She paused, her expression turning serious. 'But that doesn't mean the conspiracy isn't sometimes real.'
'What do you want to do next?'
'I need to find out more about the Farm,' Eleanor replied. 'I need to know who else was there that week and what drugs were tested on them.'
'Be careful,' said Matt. 'It's MOD. They aren't going to like you poking around too much. You've no idea how secretive that organisation is. Whatever happens at that place, they won't want to tell you about it.'
'I'll wear a short skirt, then,' said Eleanor. 'And smile a lot.'
'That should work.'
She leant forward, her lips brushing against the side of his cheek. It was only the briefest contact, over in a fraction of a second. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out.'
'Am I interrupting something?' said Orlena, looking down at Eleanor.
Her eyes rolled towards Matt, her expression scornful, as if she were taking pity on him for having to spend time with Eleanor. 'Our meeting is in just a few minutes,' she continued. 'The chairman doesn't like to be kept waiting.'
'This is Eleanor,' said Matt, nodding in her direction. 'And Eleanor, this is Orlena.'
'I won't keep you,' said Eleanor, suddenly flustered and shy. She looked towards Matt. 'I'll let you know what happens.'
Matt nodded. Eleanor looked towards Orlena. 'Bye,' she said brusquely.
'This way,' said Orlena, not replying to Eleanor.