The Increment (17 page)

The guard was standing next to him, his back to the road too, looking edgily towards Matt. The Land Rover was just a hundred yards behind them now, its speed picking up.

Keep looking the wrong way, mate. Then you won't know what's hitting you.

The tyres on the Land Rover screeched as it pulled hard off the road. It swerved, smashing into the back of the guard with a brutal blow. It impacted just above the waist, crushing hard into his spine, instantly paralysing him. He fell to the ground, the wheel of the vehicle crashing into his head.

In front of them, the guard in the Merc fired off a warning shot in the direction of Malenkov, then slammed the car door shut, and Leshko spun round, a look of terror on his face. The Land Rover had slowed after hitting the guard, but it had not stalled. In the split second available, Leshko tried desperately to save himself, throwing himself to the right, but the vehicle crushed into his left thigh, spinning his body sideways, and sending it high into the air. Matt could hear the snap of bones, where he had been hit: his left leg had definitely gone, maybe his hip and pelvis as well.

Matt jumped forwards. A fraction of a second.
That's all I have to save myself.

He moved swiftly sideways, running around to the back of the Land Rover and grabbing the AN-49 stored in the open boot. The gun felt solid in his hands as he flicked its safety catch. Kneeling, he raised the gun to his eye, then fired a swift round of bullets into the guard on the floor. The body twitched as the metal tore into his flesh, then it fell still.

Matt moved around to the front of the Land Rover and turned his fire on to the Mercedes. The bullets ripped into the tyres, turning them into loose shreds, but the bullets just bounced off the skin of the car. Matt moved closer, peppering the windows with bullets, but they ricocheted up into the air. With the butt of the rifle, he tried to smash open the window, but the strength of the glass deflected his hardest blows.

'Fuck it,' shouted Matt. 'He's getting away.'

He could hear the engine on the Mercedes roaring into life, as the driver attempted to reverse. In that car, Matt realised, even with the tyres shot to pieces, he stood a good chance.

'Ram him,' shouted Matt towards Malenkov. 'Ram the bastard.'

The Mercedes had roared into action, its engine revving furiously as the driver spun it into gear. It screeched on to the road, sparks flying off the tarmac where the bare metal of its wheels hit the road. It turned, then accelerated towards where Matt was standing. He jumped, then flung himself sideways, a bolt of pain juddering up through his shoulder as he crashed against the tarmac.

But, in trying to hit Matt, the driver had lost the split seconds in which he could have made his own escape.

No moment for loyalty mate, thought Matt.
You're wasting your own life.

Ahead, Matt could see the Land Rover ramming into the Mercedes, the two vehicles colliding in an inferno of twisting, burning metal. Malenkov had thrown himself from the cabin of his car, landing hard on the concrete surface of the lay-by. Flames were starting to lick through the underside of both machines, as petrol spilt out across the road. The driver's side window slid down, and a shot rang out through the air. The man was unable to aim, Matt realised: he knew that if he stuck his head out of the car, he'd get killed. His bullets were whizzing harmlessly through the air.

Poor, miserable bastard, thought Matt.
He's trying to decide whether to get burnt alive or come out and get shot.

The door opened. A man staggered out, blood seeping from a cut in his forehead. He took two steps forward, his hands raised in the air, shouting,
'Litasc, litasc.'

Sorry, pal.
We not in the mercy business.

Matt raised the AN-49, steadying his aim, then unleashing a volley of fire. The bullets struck the man around the upper torso, then in the neck, sending him rocking back on his heels. Another word screamed from his lips, but above the din of the machine-gun fire, Matt couldn't make it out. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his hands reaching up to his throat as the blood poured out of him. Within a minute, he would be dead.

'You OK?' Matt shouted across to Malenkov.

The Ukrainian stood up, still holding his gun. 'OK,' he grunted. 'Just some bruises.'

From the side of the road, Matt could hear the sound of a man groaning in pain. He spun on his heels, running to the edge of the field where Leshko was just regaining consciousness, his eyes blinking in the fierce sunlight. Blood was dribbling down the side of his face, and from the bump in his side it looked as if several bones had been broken. Matt jammed the barrel of his gun tight into the man's throat, already worrying that Leshko might try to pull a gun on him. 'Who would dare to do this?' said Leshko, blood spitting from his tongue as he struggled to speak. 'Who would dare?'

Matt tightened his finger on the barrel of the AN-49, pressing it hard into Leshko's skin. He paused, reflecting that the man had a right to know why he was being killed, and he had an obligation to tell him.
That was one of the differences between being a soldier and a murderer.

'Eduardo Lacrierre,' he replied. 'You've been faking his company's drugs. Big mistake. Knocking out imitation watches and handbags is one thing, but you've been fucking with some serious people.'

A bolt of pain shot across the man's face. Matt could see him trying to move, but too many bones were broken along the left side of his body for him to flex more than a muscle.

'You're a bloody fool, Englishman. I didn't steal from Lacrierre. He stole from me.'

'What could one of the richest men in Europe want to steal from a two-bit gangster in a craphole like Belarus?'

'Not money,' said Leshko. 'Science.'

'Ridiculous. What science could you possibly have out here that would interest a company like Tocah?'

Leshko tried to laugh, but the pain overwhelmed him: as soon as he creased his lips, a look of agony flashed on to his face. 'Weapons. In Soviet days, there was a lot of military research around here. XP22. That's what he took from me. It was a drug the Russians developed for the Red Army to take in Afghanistan. It makes men brave. But it makes them crazy as well.'

'You're just trying to save your neck,' Matt snapped back. 'I didn't come here for a history lesson.'

Slowly, Leshko raised his head up slightly, looking Matt hard in the eye. 'You can shoot me if you want to, Englishman. The pain I'm in right now, I don't care. But you're an idiot, and I want you to know that. They're using you, and when they're finished, they'll dispose of you.'

Matt pushed the tip of the AN-49 into the side of Leshko's cheek, the hot metal of the gun barrel burning up his skin. 'Enough.'

Leshko coughed up a small clot of blood from the back of his throat. 'You must speak to Leonid Petor,' he said, his voice turning down to a deathly whisper. 'He's old now, and lives outside Kiev. But his mind is still good, he'll tell you about it.'

Matt paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. The cars were still burning a few yards behind him, sending hot waves of smoke across the field.

'We haven't got time for this,' interrupted Malenkov, looking anxiously up and down the road.

'I'll take you to him,' Leshko wheezed, his voice growing hoarser.

Matt shook his head. He squeezed the trigger softly, released one bullet into the side of the man's head. Leshko was already weak and as the metal ripped through his brain the last spark of life left him. Matt checked he'd stopped breathing, then stood up.

He could feel the blood pumping to his head. What was it Leshko had said?

It makes men brave. But it makes them crazy as well.

He turned to look at Malenkov, his eyes intense. 'You think he was telling the truth?'

The Ukrainian shrugged, slinging his gun over his back and starting to stride out across the field. 'I don't know,' he replied warily. 'But there were rumours of drugs like that being tested on the Red Army in Soviet times.'

Matt looked out across the flat, empty fields stretching out on to the horizon. The sun was beating down, flooding the landscape with a dazzling brightness. Behind him, both the Land Rover and the Mercedes were consumed in flames, thick clouds of smoke swirling upwards. 'Christ,' he said. 'This story isn't what I thought it was at all.'

FIFTEEN

Her touch felt gentle and supple on his skin. Orlena took the vodka, dabbed it on to some cotton wool, then rubbed it on to the cuts sliced into Matt's skin. He had taken an ugly graze down the side of his shoulder, and the bruising was starting to turn purple. Across his back, a pair of cuts stretched in deep crimson lines, and the wound on his cheek from the factory raid had been sliced open again.

I've taken a beating. I need a few days' rest to get back into shape.

From the roadside, they had walked ten miles across country until they reached the next village. Malenkov had already arranged to have a car and driver waiting for them there: a twelve-year-old BMW 3 series, for which they paid two thousand euros, cash. It was double what the car was worth, but that didn't matter. It got them as far as the border, and as soon as they were back in the Ukraine, they ditched it and got a taxi down to Kiev. After sixteen hours of travelling, they were back in the apartment. They were exhausted, their energy drained and their nerves shattered. But they were alive, and the job was done.
There was some comfort in that.

'You've done so well,' said Orlena. 'Not many men could have got to Leshko and come out alive. Lacrierre will be pleased. Very pleased.'

Matt winced. The cold alcohol was stinging his skin and his blood, sending tremors of pain through his shoulders. 'Is there enough blood in the ground now to make him happy?'

Orlena filled a small glass with vodka. 'He's got what he wanted.'

She put the glass to her lips, swilling the transparent liquid into her cheeks, then leant forward, pressing her lips on to Matt's. She seemed different now: happier, more relaxed and confident than at any time since he'd met her. He could feel the vodka dribbling from her tongue to his as they kissed. They were lying back on the bed, Matt stripped down to just his jeans, but Orlena still wearing a short black skirt, suede thigh-length boots and a tight black sweater through which he could see the outline of her bra. Matt reached up, his hands running along the back of her tights until he was inside her skirt. Her legs swung across him, and with her arms she pushed him back on the bed. Matt grabbed hold of her left boot, his fingers starting to peel away its side zip.

'How many times do I have to tell you, we fuck the way I want to or not at all.'

Matt lay back on the bed, allowing her to smother him with kisses. Her lips ran down his chest, her tongue flicking out across his skin, sending ripples of excitement running down Matt's spine. He closed his eyes, letting the throb of his wounds mix with her caress, turning into a cocktail of pain and pleasure. It was swift, yet still consuming, and when Orlena was finished with him, she lay at his side, her breath slow and sleepy, taking short sips at the open vodka bottle.

Matt was starting to feel closer to Orlena. They were relaxing in each other's company. She might have forced him to come back for the second half of the job, but he had survived that, and there was nothing to hold against her now.

'Leshko said something before he died,' said Matt. 'About a bravery drug. Produced in Minsk in the old days, he said. And Lacrierre stole it from him. It makes men brave, but it also makes them crazy.' As she lay in his arms, Matt could see Orlena smiling, but he could also feel a sudden bolt of tension in her arms.

'Ridiculous,' she snapped. 'A dying man will tell any story no matter how stupid if he thinks it will save his skin. You're a soldier, you should know that.'

Matt shook his head. 'No,' he said firmly. 'There's one thing you learn on the battlefield. A dying man doesn't lie. It's probably the only moment when a man is completely honest.'

'Forget it,' said Orlena softly. 'Let's go back to England together. Or maybe Spain. I won't always be working for Tocah, and who knows, maybe I'll settle in the West.'

Matt laughed. 'I don't forget,' he answered. 'You'll learn that about me one day.'

Orlena fell silent. She was looking away from him, and Matt sensed that she might be crying: it was not a full-grown tear – she could hold those back until she needed them – but just a touch of moisture around the curved, almond-shaped cusp of her eye. 'Don't even think about the bravery drug,' she said.

Matt backed away. It was not the reaction he'd expected. 'I . . . I have to.'

'No,' said Orlena firmly. 'I said no.'

Matt could feel himself becoming angry. 'It might connect back to something in England,' he said, trying to keep his tone casual. 'I just need to check it out.'

'It
doesn't
connect.'

'Well, until I check, I don't know that.'

Orlena rolled over, gripping his fist. 'Listen, just leave it,' she said. 'This is a dark country, with dark secrets. You're a foreigner. You know nothing about what happens here. Just go home.'

Matt shook his head. 'I've told you, I just want to check.'

Suddenly, Orlena silenced him with a kiss. She reached down and started to unzip her boots. 'Then make love with me,' she whispered. 'Like it was your last time on earth.'

Matt double-checked down the street. It was early on a Tuesday morning, and the Kiev commuters were on their way to the office. It was still cool at this time of the morning, and, even though the sun was shining, a pleasant breeze was blowing through the city. It was the first time Matt had felt a comfortable temperature in weeks.

Telling Orlena he needed some air, he'd just stepped out of the apartment for a few minutes. He cupped one ear to block the noise of the traffic, sat down at a pavement cafe, and put his Nokia to the other ear. 'Eleanor,' he said into the phone. 'That you?'

He could tell it took her a moment to recognise his voice. 'Matt. You OK?'

'Just about. You find anything out?'

'About the Farm? Yes, plenty. I've been surfing the Net.'

Matt stirred a sugar into the coffee he had just ordered from a waitress in the cafe. He looked back up at her, pointing at the picture of some bacon and eggs on the menu.
It seems like weeks since I had a proper breakfast.

'What Hepher told us checked out. It's about ten miles south of Chippenham down in Wiltshire,' Eleanor continued. 'All very hush-hush, apparently.'

Matt took a hit of the coffee. 'What really happened there?'

'It was used for early-stage testing by some of the big drugs companies. They'd take compounds fresh from the labs, stuff that was so advanced they didn't want anyone to know about it yet. And then try it out on two or three volunteers, put them under observation, and get an idea of what the effects would be.'

'If the patients dropped down dead,' interrupted Matt, 'then they knew not to carry on?'

'They used quite a few prisoners. Lifers who were told they'd get some special treatment if they took part in the experiments. And they used soldiers as well.'

The bacon and eggs arrived at Matt's table, along with a serving of black toast. The bacon was in thin streaky strips; a distant relative of a proper back rasher. Still, it would have to do. 'So the MOD was involved.'

Eleanor replied carefully. 'The place was run by a number of the big pharmaceutical companies. They put up all the money, but the Home Office and the MOD came up with the patients.'

Matt took the first strip of bacon, folded it into a slice of toast and swallowed it hungrily. 'Tocah,' he said decisively. 'I bet one of them was Tocah.'

'Why?'

'A hunch, that's all.' Matt swallowed food. 'I found something out. I don't know why, but I think it might be connected. There was something called a bravery drug, it was developed out here in the old Soviet days.'

'What did it do?'

The same phrase looped through Matt's mind. 'It made men brave, but it made them crazy as well.'

He could visualise the expression on her face: surprise, fear, but also pleasure, the rush of adrenalin to the brain when it makes a connection. 'It makes men brave, but it makes them crazy as well,' she said, repeating the words as slowly as if she were reading them out to a class of three-year-olds. 'A drug that you might test on soldiers, but which might drive them crazy.' She paused. 'My God, Matt. Maybe that's what was tested on the soldiers who went to the Farm. Maybe that's what happened to Ken.'

'Let's not get carried away,' said Matt. 'It might be nothing.'

'Can you find out more about the drug?' she continued, her tone rising. 'We could find out if there were any traces of it in the bodies of the men who went crazy.'

'I can try,' said Matt.

'And I'm going to get down to Wiltshire. Ask around about this Farm place. Maybe somebody will know something about it, maybe I can even get a list of the soldiers who had drugs tested on them.'

'No,' snapped Matt. 'Wait until I get back. If it had anything to do with the MOD, there will be tight security. They won't like people asking questions.'

'Don't worry, I can look after myself. Call me as soon as you get back to London.'

'No, Eleanor, don't go.'

Matt could hear his voice rising, but he knew he was talking into thin air. She'd already rung off. Quickly, he started to redial, but the battery on his Nokia had run dead. The phone was refusing to respond.

She's got no idea what she might be up against here. Nor can she imagine the violence they are capable of.

Matt looked down at the remaining egg and slice of bacon on his plate. He folded the bacon on to his fork, and started to chew on it. But suddenly he wasn't hungry any more.

'Here you are,' said Orlena, handing the weapon across the car seat.

Matt glanced down at the gun: a .38-calibre Russian-manufactured Marakov, it was a precisely tooled gun that would fit neatly just below the belt of his jeans.

'Makes a change from unloading my pistol, I suppose.'

Orlena didn't smile. She had spent an hour this morning trying to persuade Matt to go straight back to London with her. After speaking with Eleanor, Matt had told Orlena he was cancelling his flight back to London. He needed to follow up what Leshko had told him about the bravery drug: it was a personal matter, he explained. Nothing to do with Lacrierre or Tocah. She'd been incredibly angry, trying to insist again they had to get back to London to debrief Lacrierre. You do what you like, Matt had told her: I'm staying here. As his determination became clear, her tone changed. She'd offered to come with him. You'll need someone to speak Ukrainian, she said. And to help you find his address.

Now Matt looked back up at the tower block. They were on the outskirts of Kiev, where the Dnieper River started to twist eastwards, away from the factories, and out into the clear, flat countryside stretching down to the Black Sea coastline. The estate looked of late sixties, early seventies vintage, with twelve tall towers grouped in a semicircle around what might have once been a park but was now just a dump for broken furniture and smashed-up cars. Half the windows in each tower were boarded up, another quarter were broken.

'Nice spot,' said Matt.

'Worker's paradise,' said Orlena. 'Anyone gets nostalgic for the old days, they come here. It reminds them that however bad things might get sometimes, anything is better than socialism.'

Matt climbed out of the car – a Fiat Punto, rented from the local Hertz office – and started walking out across the empty ground. 'This way,' said Orlena, walking quickly past Matt.

To his right, Matt could see a pair of teenage boys taking the engine from an abandoned car. He followed Orlena across the waste ground, towards the back of the last of the tower blocks. There was a row of twenty identical two-storey houses, with a flat on each level. They had been white originally, but were now stained, and covered with the patches of a hundred cheap repairs. But the windows were mostly intact, and a few flowers had been planted along the communal front garden. Compared with the rest of the estate, it looked like a palace.

Orlena stopped outside Number Twelve, ringing the bell. It didn't work. She banged twice, loudly, making the door creak beneath her fist. From inside, Matt could hear a man shouting, then the sound of a series of locks being slowly unfastened.

Three locks, counted Matt.
Maybe he doesn't trust the neighbours.

Leonid Petor was eighty-five and thin, but still sprightly. His skin was stretched tight over the bones in his face, and his eyes shone brightly across the room. He glanced first at Orlena, then at Matt, his expression wary.
'Dobryy den,'
he muttered.

Orlena spoke to him in Ukrainian, waited for the reply, then looked towards Matt. 'He says we can come in.'

Matt stepped into the hallway. It was neat and tidy, with a blue carpet, and a bunch of dried flowers in a vase on a side table. The hall led through to a living room, with a kitchen at the back, a small bedroom and a shower room. So far as Matt could tell, he lived alone. If there was a Mrs Petor, she had long since died.

'I speak English,' said Petor, looking up at Matt. 'I had to. I was a scientist, and English is the language of science.'