The Increment (19 page)

Make that fifty-one ways to leave your lover.

Matt could feel the smoke stinging his eyes, and his stomach was starting to heave as the fumes filled his lungs. He pulled himself up off the ground, and started collecting as many of the papers as he could from the shelves. He tucked a bundle underneath his arms, and started to run towards the front door. The smoke was thicker and blacker, and waves of flames had started to crawl across the ceiling, drowning the apartment in heat. Soon the entire building would be on fire.

In the halfway, the carpet and the door were already burning. He held his breath to stop himself taking in any more smoke, then forced himself forward. The metal of the lock was already glowing from the heat. Matt slammed the bolt backwards, a sharp pain running down his arm as the metal burnt the skin on his fingers. With his foot, he kicked the door back, sending it flying open. A rush of oxygen flooded into the hall, stoking up the flames.

Matt ran outside, gasping for air. He sprinted away from the block, not pausing until he was at least a hundred yards from the building. An armful of papers were clutched tight to his chest. Behind him, he could see people starting to stream from the building, and within a few minutes he knew he would hear the sounds of police sirens and fire engines.

Time to make myself vanish.

He tried to bring his breathing under control, heading out of the compound towards the river and the car. It was time to get out of Kiev.
For ever.

SIXTEEN

Matram put the picture down on the table. A simple headshot measuring six inches by eight, it showed a woman in her late twenties. She had blonde hair tucked behind her neck, and a look of hidden intelligence concealed within her eyes. Attractive, but not a stunning beauty, reflected Matram.

'Her name is Eleanor Blackman,' he said softly. 'She needs to be eliminated. Immediately.'

Turnton picked up the picture, held it between his fingers, then passed it across to Snaddon. 'Who is she?' he asked, his voice, as always, painfully slow.

'Psychologist,' said Matram. 'It's time for her to check out.'

'Where does she work?' asked Snaddon brightly.

Of all the people in the Increment, Snaddon was always the most cheerful. The manner of a holiday rep, Matram sometimes reflected, but with the cold, dark heart of a natural assassin.

Macram glanced across at her. He had chosen her because he felt a woman would be right for this job.
They know the ways of their own sex. It takes one to kill one.

'Charing Cross Hospital. In research.'

'Another hospital hit?' asked Snaddon.

Matram shook his head. 'I don't think so. Security may be terrible in those places, but it might be hard to get in and out again without being stopped. She doesn't work nights.' He paused, glancing down at the picture. 'I think it would be better if we could take her on our territory, not hers.'

Matt slammed the phone down. He had just spoken to Janey back at the Last Trumpet.

The bar was doing well: despite the intense heat of the summer, there were still plenty of tourists, and they were staying in the bar for half the night, trying to get enough liquids down their throats to stay cool. But there was still no sign of Gill. She hadn't been into the bar, and she hadn't been to work.

There was no sign of her anywhere.

Where is she? he repeated silently to himself. It doesn't matter how angry she is with me.
She can't just disappear off the face of the earth.

Matt looked out of the window of the small Holborn flat where he had arrived this afternoon. His bag of kit was still in the hallway, he hadn't felt like unpacking. Outside, sweaty commuters were having a drink before they took the tube home. Matt could hear their laughter, but felt as if he were in another world. In their universe, people worked, had families, built careers and got on with their lives. In my world, I am surrounded by shadows, plots, deceptions and intrigues.
And sometimes I despair of it.

I thought I was going out on a simple security job. Now, I'm at the centre of a conspiracy. I could walk away, forget about it, ignore the connections between Lacrierre and the soldiers who have been going crazy around Britain. That kind of knowledge is dangerous. It could get me killed. But although you can leave everything else behind, you can't throw away your memories.
I'll always know that I could have done something about it. That will always be with me.

Eleanor smiled at him as she stepped into the flat. He'd called her as soon as he'd landed at Heathrow, telling her they needed to meet up right away. I'll be over, she'd replied. Just as soon as she could get out of the hospital. He remained silent as he showed her through to the main room.

'Are you OK, Matt?'

'It's worse than we thought,' he answered.

He sat down on the sofa, pulling out a sheaf of paper: the same papers he'd taken from Petor's burning apartment. Eleanor sat next to him, her expression worried. 'The drug was called XP22,' said Matt. 'It was developed back in the Soviet Union in the seventies and eighties. It made soldiers braver, but it had side effects.'

'And they used it on their men? Without testing it properly?'

'Cannon fodder,' snapped Matt.

'And you think it might have been used here?'

Matt rubbed his forehead. 'God knows what they use,' he said. 'In the Gulf, they gave the men all kind of crap. Told us it was to protect us against chemical weapons, but nobody knew what it was. Most of us threw it away.' He paused, walking across to the kitchen to get a glass of water. 'So yes, they might well have used it here.'

Eleanor looked down at the papers, studying them intently. Her eyes squinted at the faded lettering: they had been written on an old-fashioned typewriter, and were at least twenty years old, the black ink starting to fade. 'If only we could figure out the chemical composition of the drug.' She stood up, walking across to Matt. 'Then we could just test the bodies of one of the men who went crazy. I'm sure we'd find traces of this drug.'

'But what else are we going to find?' snapped Matt, his face reddening with anger. 'And then what are we going to do when we find out?'

Eleanor turned away from him. 'My brother died, I want the truth, Matt,' she said, her voice cracking. 'That's an end in itself.'

Matt's mobile was ringing. He picked it up, nodded twice, then said, 'OK, I'll see you then.'

'It's Abbott,' he said looking back at Eleanor. 'I'm going to see him now.'

'No,' said Eleanor, her tone anxious. 'It could be a trap.'

Matt shook his head. 'I need to see him,' he answered. 'I need to find out what he knows.'

The crimson, burning tip of a cigarette broke through the darkness. Matt sniffed the air, recognised the aroma of Dunhill tobacco, and started walking forwards. The car park at the Sainsbury's next to Victoria station was deep underground, three floors below street level. The first two floors were filled with busy shoppers, but this level was used only for unloading the food every morning, and was completely empty at this time of night. Abbott had insisted they had to meet somewhere away from the Firm: somewhere with minimal security, and where there was no chance of their being seen together.

'Abbott,' Matt shouted. 'Where the fuck are you?'

From behind a row of six giant rubbish pails, Abbott emerged. He was dressed in white chinos, a blue shirt open at the collar and a pale cream linen jacket. He looked across at Matt, a half-smile on his face, then tossed his cigarette on to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe.

'Good choice of camouflage,' said Matt. 'Next to the garbage you blend right in.'

'Watch your manners, old fruit,' said Abbott. 'You don't have to like me, but a little politeness wouldn't hurt.'

'And it wouldn't hurt you to learn about not telling lies to the men you are working with.'

'Lies?' Abbott took a step backwards. 'Maybe you didn't like this job, but I assure you there was no dishonesty involved.' He shrugged, reaching into his pocket and grabbing another cigarette. 'Anyway, it's all over now, old fruit. Our friend out in the wild east is dead. Made quiet a splash in the
Minsk Mail,
or whatever the local rag is called. Good work by you, old fruit. Lacrierre is very pleased. I'm very pleased. The Firm is very pleased. We couldn't be any happier if Cameron Diaz walked into the room asking if any of the chaps would mind if she gave them a blow job.'

'You're wrong. It's not over.'

Abbott looked at him closely. 'Listen to me, old fruit, job done. Time to get back to the Last Strumpet. Get the tapas into the microwave. Get the beer nice and cold. All that.'

'XP22,' said Matt. 'Ever heard of it?'

'Not much of a whizz with the computers,' said Abbott. 'What is it? One of Bill Gates's little wheezes for emptying out our wallets once again?'

Abbott stabbed the cigarette into his mouth. An orange glow from his lighter briefly lit up the space between them, illuminating Abbott's eyes as he shifted them sideways. Smokers, noted Matt. They reach for the nicotine when they're under pressure.
Like when they're lying through their teeth.

'It's a drug. Used on soldiers in the Soviet Union. To make them brave.'

'Ah, Johnnie Commie,' said Abbott, taking a deep drag on the Dunhill. 'How we miss him now he's gone. Much more civilised class of enemy than all these Arabs we have to deal with nowadays. But what's it got to do with the here and now?'

'Lacrierre bought the drug,' said Matt. 'I don't know why or what for, but he did. And that's what the job was all about. Nothing to do with counterfeiting.' He took a step forward, his tone growing harsher. 'Like I said, you've been lying to me all along.'

'Nobody lied to anybody, Matt. The job's done, over. What does it matter to you what drugs were sold to whom? It was a long time ago. Your account is about to be unfrozen. You can get back to building that house, marry the schoolteacher, knock out a couple of little baby Brownings. Be nice to yourself, old fruit. Christ knows, nobody else bloody well will.'

'I can't,' said Matt bluntly.

'What a pity,' said Abbott.

A dark blue Land Rover Freelander drew up, the driver pulling the vehicle up right next to Abbott. He tossed his cigarette on the floor and climbed into the back seat, his eyes avoiding Matt. 'Cheerio, old fruit,' he said. 'I wanted to give you a pat on the back.' He sighed. 'Now I never will.'

The door clunked shut and the car pulled away, heading up the ramp towards the street.

I've made a mistake,
realised Matt, cursing himself as the thought struck home.
I should never have told him I knew.

As Matt left the car park, Ivan was waiting in a rented Ford Focus. 'Listen, I've been digging around,' he said. 'You want to know more about the bravery drug, then you need to go and speak to Professor Johnson. Old guy. Clever.'

Matt looked at him. 'Who is he?'

'He was a left-wing intellectual, back when the peace movement was big in the 1980s,' said Ivan. 'A lot of those people had contacts with my old lot. That's how I came across him. He's one of the world's greatest experts on chemical and biological warfare. If anyone knows about this drug, he will.'

'Where can I get hold of him?'

'Got a pen?'

Matt nodded.

'Then take down the number,' said Ivan.

'Information like that is dangerous,' said Professor Johnson, sitting back in a brown leather armchair.

Matt looked across at the professor. He was in his early seventies, but his hair was still black, and his skin was clean and soft. He tapped the end of his cigar against the desk, then, using a greasy old lighter, lit up a swathe of flame. The smoke curled away from his face.

'You should be careful what you do with it,' he continued.

According to Ivan, Johnson was one of the military's greatest critics. He had made his name in the early eighties, when he led campaigns on behalf of the servicemen who had witnessed nuclear tests. For years, the claims for compensation for the cancers and other diseases they suffered had been turned down, but Johnson had worked tirelessly on their behalf, until eventually some meagre payments were made to a few frail old men and a collection of angry widows. Next, he'd helped reveal how the government-sponsored laboratories had been used to test chemical and biological weapons. Soldiers had been told they were being given drugs to cure colds: in truth, they were being used as lab rats for weapons programmes.

'You look like a soldier to me,' said Johnson, looking across at Matt. 'Which regiment?'

'The SAS. Ten years. I've been out for two.'

Johnson took another drag on his cigar. 'Ever get anything tested on you?'

Matt shook his head. 'The Ruperts gave us some kit sometimes. We'd rather take our chances with the enemy than any of that rubbish.'

'Very wise,' said Johnson. 'There have been some disturbing reports about some of the chemical agents used in the first Gulf War. Men are coming down with diseases a decade later, and of course the military are denying everything. Then read the reports from Gulf Two, and you'll notice something odd again. The Americans have an abnormally high suicide rate. You always get a few suicides in a combat zone. The stress, a lot of men can't take it. But they are running at four or five times what you'd expect.' He shrugged, a smile on his lips. 'So, maybe something in the water?'

Eleanor looked up through the thick cloud of cigar smoke that had settled around Johnson's face. Even though it was close on forty degrees outside, all the windows in the study were closed, and the professor was still wearing a cardigan. 'Bravery,' she said. 'Is there any history of the military trying to enhance that?'

'Of course, over the centuries, armies have tried to enhance just about every aspect of military performance. That's what warfare is all about, getting a tiny edge over your opponent. The Incas were among the first, over a thousand years ago. They used to drill into men's heads, performing surgery on the brain, in the belief that it could banish fear in combat. Then there was alcohol, and tobacco. They have always been distributed liberally on the battlefield. And religion, of course, the greatest of all drugs. Every army has a few tame priests in its caravan, just to reassure the men there is another life out there somewhere, since this one might not last much longer.'