by Chris Ryan
'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.'
TWENTY-THREE
Matt walked quickly up and down the street. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and he could see the shadows lengthening on the ground. He was standing at the top of Battersea Rise, a row of smart-looking shops and restaurants leading down towards Clapham. Pointer and his team had been left preparing their positions by the railway tracks. He'd told Eleanor to meet him here, but whether she'd left the hotel before Matram got there, there was no way of knowing. If they caught her, they would know that he would be here now. There was no chance of Eleanor keeping a secret during a beating. Not from the Increment.
Behind him there was a stretch of park leading down towards Wandsworth. Next to him, the railway bridge looked down on the tracks below, a commuter train to the south coast shunting slowly down the track. Matt stared at the roof, looking at the crevices and pits carved into the structure. A moving train can be two things, he reflected. A weapon or a coffin.
A man caught his eye, maybe twenty feet ahead of him. He was six foot, dressed in a suit, but with his collar undone and his jacket slung over his shoulder. There was a slowness to the way he was walking, as if he wasn't going anywhere. He strolled along the side of the road, across the bridge, past Emanuel School and on to the pub on the corner. Then he doubled back, walking the same way back again: there was a faint smile on his lips, but also a trace of anxiety, as if he were pumping himself up for action.
Matt looked down at his watch. Four minutes to six. Eleanor should have been here ten minutes ago. I'll meet you at the bridge at the top of Battersea rise, he'd told her. At five forty-five. Wait for me for fifteen minutes, and if I'm not there, assume the worst. I'll be dead, and you'll be on your own.
I hadn't figured on her not making it.
Matt looked down to the hill. From north of London, how would she get here? By train down to Clapham Junction, then maybe walk. A taxi if she was running late. He scanned the faces of the women walking up the hill, looking for the familiar mane of blonde hair, the bright red lips and the blue eyes that sparkled and shone as they looked into you. He brushed aside the scowls and frowns as the women he was looking at caught sight of his stares. They think I'm just some idiot ogling babes on a summer evening, reflected Matt. I can handle that, just so long as . . .
Where are you? Please, if one of us is to be captured, let it be me, and not her.
The man again. He had crossed the road again, walking on the same side as Matt now, just ten yards away from him. He was ambling purposelessly, as if he had nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. Just the way an assassin might if he was waiting for the moment to unload his bullets. He looked up at Matt, their eyes meeting. Matt sensed a flash of recognition: the look you might get from a man who had been shown your photograph, and told to go out and hunt you down.
Matt felt the pistol in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the sticky metal of the trigger. Silently, he unhooked the safety catch, ready to start firing. He started to glance around the street, assessing the environment, trying to figure out how to minimise the casualties if a firefight broke out in the street.
They can take me if they want to, but with a bullet through the chest, not the back.
'Jack,' shouted a woman, thirty yards behind him.
Matt spun around. Dark-haired, tanned, athletic, and dressed in jeans and a loose blue blouse, she looked like classic Increment material. Matt started to back away, edging himself towards a shop window: there was some space between the window and the door where he might be able to take cover.
'Mary,' said the man, stepping forwards. He gave her a hug, holding on to her hand as they walked together towards the park.
Just a couple meeting up for a date. She was running late, and he thought he'd been stood up. That was why he was looking worried.
Christ, thought Matt. The shadows are everywhere. And if I don't sharpen up I'll be one of them.
Inside the train, the air was cool, air conditioned down to a comfortable, steady twenty-three degrees centigrade. Every Tocah office throughout the world was always exactly the same temperature: Lacrierre had read once that twenty-three degrees gave just the right amount of warmth for maximum mental concentration, and insisted the entire empire always operate at that level.
Matram had walked through from the platform into the main compartment, which was still empty. It wasn't due to leave the station until eight-forty this evening, when Lacrierre always returned home to Paris for the weekend. So far as Matram could tell it was clean. No bombs, no tripwires, no electronic devices – and bulletproof windows. You could never say any vehicle was 100 per cent safe: but if any one was, this was it.
'What makes you think he's coming for the train, old fruit?' said Abbott.
He was looking very comfortable in the leather armchair in the main carriage, next to a desk and a computer screen. The white linen of his suit was looking crumpled, and the sunburnt skin on his nose had started to peel away. A cigarette was dangling from the fingers of his left hand, as yet unlit.
'Figure it out,' growled Matram. 'Matt Browning is somewhere in the Battersea area. This train passes through that area on its way to the Channel Tunnel. So what the hell else would he be doing around there?' He paused, lifting up a pair of chairs, looking underneath them.
'One man against a high-speed locomotive like this,' said Abbott. 'I know you regiment boys like to think of yourself as pretty tough. But that's absurd.'
'One man can do just about anything,' snapped Matram. 'Take over a train, blow it up, whatever. So long as he puts his mind to it, and has a bit of luck.'
Abbott shook his head. 'I think he's on the run,' he replied. 'Deep down, Browning is a coward. That's why he's serving the sangria and chips over in the Costa del Dosh, not doing a proper job. He could have been in charge of the Increment by now if he wanted to.'
'Bollocks,' said Matram. 'He was lucky they ever took him into
the regiment. Fucking cowardly scum.'
'Calm down, Matram, I'm sure you're right.' Abbott smiled to himself. 'He's just a glorified Spanish waiter. Shout Manuel, and he'll give you a funny little grin and come running.' He jabbed the unlit cigarette into his mouth. 'So I think he just buggered off. He's probably shagging the little blonde muffin right now, and drawing up a business plan for a little restaurant in Argentina.'
Matram shook his head. 'He's coming for the train,' he said slowly. 'It's the regiment training in him. You can't shake it.'
'Breaking into the open,' said Abbott lighting his cigarette. 'Sounds bloody stupid to me.'
'It's standard operating procedure, drilled into all the men as soon as they start their training. When you're cornered, you break out and hit the enemy. Take the fight to them. It might look crazy, and sometimes it is, but it's the best chance you've got.'
'Then tell Lacrierre to get the bloody plane to Paris,' said Abbott, shifting in his seat. 'Or, sod it, spend the weekend in Britain. How bad can it be?'
Matram walked across to the window, looking down on to the tracks. The train was still in the sidings at Waterloo: it would be another hour before it was shunted on to the main platform ready for its departure. 'No,' he said softly. 'That would make us look nervous.' He turned to look at Abbott. 'And remember, I've dealt with Browning before. He is weak. I can handle him.'
'By yourself?'
Matram shook his head. 'I could of course. But there will be four Increment members on this train, plus me,' he said. 'He's got no chance.'
'What if he tries to blow the train?' said Abbott.
Matram shook his head. 'On a busy track like this you couldn't do it without taking out civilians,' he replied. 'Browning's not ruthless enough. That's always been his problem. He'll try to ambush me and I'll be waiting for him.'
The relief was already flooding through his veins, pushing a surge of energy through him: fast and heady. He saw her walking up the hill, a bag slung over her shoulder, and a trace of sweat down both cheeks. Matt ran straight up to her, kissed her, then started running again.
You don't think about how much you care for someone until you start imagining you might never see them again.
'Quick,' said Matt, grasping her arm, and pulling her along the street. 'There's no time to lose.'
'Where are we going?' she said, her voice trailing away in the breeze.
'Down to the railway tracks,' hissed Matt.
They moved swiftly along the side of the street, both remaining silent. It was a quarter past six now, and the rush-hour traffic was starting to calm down. Across the road, Matt could see a collection of beery-looking drinkers gathering outside the Mill Pond pub a hundred yards away, the pints already in their hands, their shirts open to the waist. A gap in the fencing led down to the tracks. Matt pushed through it, guiding Eleanor down with his hands. The fall was steep, and the scrub harsh and dry. Matt stamped his feet into the ground, using his heels to dig into the dirt as he guided himself downwards. A train was just disappearing down the track, leaving a heavy smell of greasy diesel fuel in its wake. He recaptured his balance, walking steadily down the side of the rails. His eyes were fixed on the bush about fifty yards ahead of him: the spot where Damien had dumped his cache of weapons. So long as that is OK, we're in with a chance.
'Here,' said Matt, pointing towards the bush.
Eleanor followed him, climbing up a few yards of bank side, then rolling down on to the scrub next to the bush. The others were already there. Damien was lying close to the ground, next to Pointer, Keith, Perry and Archie. They were passing one of Pointer's freshly rolled cigarettes between them, and Archie had a six-pack of Carlsberg Special Brew under his arm.
'Who are they?' whispered Eleanor. 'What are they doing here?'
'They're here to help,' answered Matt. 'We're taking the train, and then we're taking Lacrierre.'
She sat down on the scrub, brushing some of the dust out of the way, introducing herself to each of the men in turn. Damien said hi, but the rest just nodded or grunted. Their expressions suggested they didn't understand what a woman was doing here.
'You stay here,' whispered Matt. 'When the fighting starts, just fall back and keep out of the way.'
'I'm coming with you,' said Eleanor stubbornly. 'Without me, you can't get the antidote.'
'No,' snapped Matt. 'Impossible. Wait until we've taken the train. Then I'll come and get you.'
Eleanor looked away, remaining silent.
'It's too dangerous,' said Matt, his tone softer now. He glanced down at the track. 'We're up against the Increment. It's going to be brutal and bloody.'
'So what do we do now?' asked Eleanor.
'We do what soldiers have always done,' answered Matt. 'We sit around feeling nervous until the action begins.'
Matram looked out across the railway track. He could smell the diesel lingering in the air, mixing with the heat of the evening to fill the atmosphere with a poisonous, sulphurous aroma.
The smell of death. Like napalm.
He laid out a map of south London on the ground, jabbing at it with his finger. A circle had been drawn with red ink around two square miles covering Battersea, parts of Clapham High Street, and stretching out across Wandsworth Common. 'Here,' he snapped. 'They are somewhere here.'
The mobile they had identified as belonging to Matt was a pay-as-you-go device operated by T-Mobile: according to the company records it was a Motorola phone, stolen in Leicester six weeks ago. The SIM card and phone might have been swapped over several times since then but that didn't matter. It was transmitting through a base station located just next to Wandsworth Common. The map showed the area in which phones locked on to that base station: move outside that zone, and the phone would automatically search for another base station to lock on to.
Within that circle, covering two square miles, he might be anywhere. But he was somewhere in that space. That was certain.
If I was going to hit the train, what spot would I choose? I'd want cover, and high banks, so that I could attack from above. And I'd need to be somewhere where there were no buildings overlooking the track, so I could complete my attack in secret.
'We are looking for anywhere a man might choose to lay himself up for a few hours before making his move.'
'Think he might have a safe house somewhere in the zone?' asked Harton.
'It's possible. We can't be certain of anything. But I think that's unlikely. His main helper seems to be Rowe, and he's ex-PIRA. They had houses around Hammersmith and Kilburn, and over in Docklands, but not much in Battersea. Unless he's got a friend, someone who can take him in for a few hours. No, he's going to find somewhere low-key, somewhere he won't attract any attention. My bet is they'll find him in a pub somewhere, sipping a pint and reading the Evening Standard.'
'But we're still searching the rail tracks?' said Godsall.
Matram nodded. 'Maybe he's laying up, maybe he's just waiting for the train. Either way, he can't hide from us for long. I want you to check every inch of this track and make certain he's not hiding on it. No booby traps, no bombs, nothing.'
He looked out down the railway winding its way south from Waterloo station, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. 'Any mistakes, and you'll be out of the Increment, and out of the regiment.' He paused. 'And after that, I'll track you down and kill you with my bare hands.'
Matt took the bar of Yorkie, broke off a chunk and offered it to Eleanor. It was eight thirty. The sun was close to setting, fierce streaks of red settling down against the dirty, grey sky of south London. The heat of the day was starting to ebb, and at last a gentle breeze was starting to blow in from the east, fanning both their faces.
At their side, Archie had opened up the tins of Special Brew, and each man was drinking one. Villains, thought Matt. They like a beer before they go into action: it's their own version of XP22. In the army, he'd known men carry whisky bottles to gee themselves up before a fight, but most soldiers like to be stone
sober on the battlefield.