The Increment (33 page)

Matt heard a shriek, a cry, and then a whimper.

He looked up. Godsall was lying on the floor of the carriage, a thin line of blood sparkling like red wine at the side of his head.

TWENTY-SIX

Orlena stepped forward, the one-inch heels of her black leather slingbacks treading carefully over Godsall's bleeding body. Her hair was tied back, held in place by an ivory pin, and her face was covered in a thin film of sweat and dust.

Leaning down, she tapped the side of Godsall's skull with her Marakov gun. A howl of pain erupted from his lips as the hot metal stung the open wound. Orlena paused, a look of concentration on her face, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet smashed into the side of his head, killing him instantly.

If you're going to come back from the dead, thought Matt, do it with a gun in your hand. He looked at her, their eyes meeting. On her face, he couldn't see even the trace of a smile. She stood up slowly, her progress purposeful, yet still cautious, the way a snake moves through the grass.

The Marakov was pointing straight ahead of her, four bullets left in the chamber. Matt could see the clean, sculpted shape of its barrel, another masterpiece of Russian gun design.
Which of us gets the next bullet? Who is she working for?

'Whose side are you on?' he said.

'Same side she's always been on,' snapped Lacrierre. 'Her own.'

'Absolutely right, sir,' said Orlena calmly.

'How did you get here?' asked Eleanor.

Matt looked across at her. 'Get hold of his gun,' he hissed. 'We don't want Matram getting it.'

Eleanor walked across the floor, picking up the MP-5 nervously. The sweat was streaming down her face, and her hair was wet and stringy.

'I've been on board since Waterloo,' said Orlena calmly. 'I have a key to the train, always have had. One of the advantages of working as special security assistant to the chairman of the company. I thought I would let you and Matt do all the dirty work.' Her eyes rolled sideways, and she let out a long sigh. 'But it seems you've fucked up so badly, I thought I better do something.'

'What do you want?' said Lacrierre.

'Same thing they want,' said Orlena, nodding towards Eleanor and Matt. 'The antidote.
That's what I was doing working for you all along.
I need the antidote.'

Her gun, thought Matt. It's pointing at Lacrierre, not me.

'Your brother, Roman. He fought in Afghanistan, you told me that.' Matt paused. 'He took XP22. And without the antidote, he's liable to go crazy any time.'

Orlena nodded, advancing another few inches towards Lacrierre, the Marakov thrust out in front of her face. 'By now you'll have had time to process all the data we took from the factory in Belarus,' she said. 'So where is it?'

'I thought you were dead,' said Lacrierre. 'Next time I'll make certain.'

A smile started to crease up Orlena's lips, and for a brief moment she almost looked happy. It was always surprising, Matt reflected, how even in the most desperate of circumstances, people still found the strength to take pleasure in their own cleverness.

'You were wearing Kevlar, weren't you? When we went to see Petor, you knew you were probably going to shoot me, or that I would probably shoot you. So you put on a Kevlar vest just in case you took a bullet, so you could fall back into the smoke.' He paused, looking towards her. 'Congratulations.'

'Thank you,' said Orlena. 'A little late in the game, perhaps, but you seem to have figured it out.'

She held the Marakov aloft, jerking it high into the air so that it was pointing straight at Lacrierre. 'Where is it?' she repeated.

Matt could feel Lacrierre give a Gallic shrug: a very French movement of the shoulders that suggested he was ready to concede defeat, and no longer cared very much about the outcome one way or the other. 'In the computer. You'll find a file called XP44. The name is obvious enough. We got enough material from the computer disks you brought back for the lab scientists to build a rough chemical. It's not perfect yet, but it should work well enough. Any soldier who has taken XP22 just has to take a shot of the second drug and it squashes the side effects. They'll be fine for the time being.'

Orlena stepped towards the desk, picking up her heels to avoid the corpse of Harton still lying bleeding on the floor. 'Where?' she demanded.

'Open the files first,' said Lacrierre angrily.

There was a sudden jolt, throwing Matt offbalance. He could hear the wheels of the train screeching against the track as the brakes were thrown hard forward, and the carriage rocked from side to side. Matt could feel his shoulders being forced back against the wall, but his grip on Lacrierre's neck remained as tight as ever.

Their chance, he realised.
This is their chance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Abbott start to advance on Eleanor again. 'Back off,' she said, her voice strained. 'Or I'll shoot.'

They all turned to look at her. Abbott raised his eyebrows. 'Don't be tiresome, old girl.'

'I'll shoot now,' shouted Eleanor.

The MP-5 she had taken was held out in front of her, but it was wobbling in her hand. Nerves, Matt realised. Shooting a man is harder than it looks. Pointing and squeezing the trigger is easy enough. But the will, you either have it or you don't.

She doesn't have it.

The gun fired, the bullet racing through the air, and lodging itself harmlessly in the side of the carriage. She must have missed by a yard or more. Matt watched as Abbott wrenched the gun from her hand, pushing her backwards. Tears were running from her eyes, and her hand was still shaking.

It was too late. Eleanor had lost control of the battle. Abbott was pointing the MP-5 straight at Orlena.

Orlena spun round, the Marakov pushed out in front of her. The bullet was already racing towards her, slicing through the air, the smoke from the gun rising to the ceiling. It hit her in the chest, just above the heart, the force of the impact rocking her back on her feet. In the same instant, her finger pressed instinctively on the trigger of the Marakov, releasing the bullet. She collapsed on to the floor, consciousness ebbing away from her.

Abbott was clutching his stomach, his hands pressed tight against his skin where Orlena's bullet has struck. Blood was starting to seep up through his shirt and jacket, staining the white linen, and turning it a vivid crimson. He started to kneel, then fell face forward on the floor. The cigarette was still in his mouth, and its tip jammed up against his skin, burning the side of his face. He shouted, rolled over on his side, pushing the burning cigarette away. As he did so, his hands came away from his stomach. At least a pint of blood spilled out on to the floor, seeping out across the carpet. A howl rose up from Abbott's throat.

He had taken the bullet just below his chest. The walls of the stomach had been punctured by an inch of hardened steel, severing the intricate web of arteries, causing massive bleeding. Matt had seen those injuries on the battlefield, and although a man could survive them, he had to get to a skilful surgeon quickly. At the very least he had to be patched up with bandages to get the blood loss and pain under control. Without either, he was going to bleed to death: a painful descent into oblivion, accompanied by confusion, headaches and a nightmarish weakness as your blood and your life slowly drained away from you.

At times like this, you rely on your mates.
Abbott hasn't got any.

In front of him, Matt could see Matram moving towards the front of the carriage. The door leading to the engine opened with a hiss, a blast of fresh air rushing into the carriage.

Matt pushed Lacrierre to the floor, delivering a sharp blow to the side of his head as he did so to knock him out. Eleanor had already picked up Abbott's gun from the floor. 'Cover him,' he shouted towards Eleanor. 'I'll take Matram.'

Matt's mind was working furiously. The forces of law and order would probably soon descend on the train.
If I can't take Matram now, I don't get another chance.

The doorway was still open. He tried to level up a shot on his Glock pistol, but Matram had almost reached the driver's compartment. The train was still accelerating, and Matt could see Ashford International whizz past. Another few minutes, and they would be in the tunnel.

Matt threw himself forward, but a fraction of a second too late, he realised, as the door slid shut. Matram was inside, by himself with the driver.

The door was locked from the inside. Matt banged hard on the red emergency lever, but it was not responding. Matram must have already shut it down. Matt cursed to himself. There's only one way in.
I'll have to blow the bastard out.

From the bag of kit still slung to his back, he took one of the small balls of Semtex Damien had supplied him with. He jammed it in tight to the side of the door, attaching a fuse to it, then stood back: explosives and charges were part of basic SAS training. He'd watched Ivan do this a year ago, blowing up the door of a safe on a boat they were attacking, but even then, the quantity of explosive needed had been miscalculated, sinking the boat and almost costing them their lives. It didn't matter how expert you were, it was close on impossible to calculate precisely the amount of explosive needed to take out a door.

And I'm not even an expert.

He glanced backwards, checking that Eleanor was still holding a gun on Lacrierre. I don't have time to measure the risks, thought Matt.

He ignited the fuse, shouted at Eleanor to get down, then threw himself back down on the floor of the carriage. A five-second delay ticked by before the fuse activated. He counted down the seconds.

The force of the explosion rocked through the train. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness, and Matt realised the explosion must have blown all the fuses, and that as the walls were completely black on either side, they were now inside the Channel Tunnel.

He could feel the wheels wobble and jump as the blast kicked down into the engine, and for a moment he thought it might be thrown clean from the tracks. The air was filled with the thick, gut-wrenching smell of burning rubber but the engine kept turning.

He leapt to his feet, gripping tight on his Glock pistol. He sensed that the door was hanging loose, a mess of twisted metal and severed wires. He pushed forward, holding his gun straight ahead of him. He wanted to fire into the darkness, hoping to hit Matram, but he knew there was no point in wasting ammunition. Just inside the cabin, he almost stumbled over the unconscious body of the driver.

Then he heard Matram laugh.

Matt could hear him but still couldn't see him.

Raising his Glock upwards, he fired it once, then twice. He heard glass shattering, and cursed to himself. The bullets were flying past Matram, and had broken the windows at the side of the train. Unlike the carriages, this glass was not reinforced, and was breaking into shreds as the bullets impacted against it.

'One against one, Browning,' said Matram. 'Just you against me.'

A hurricane of air swept through the cabin, sucking Matt forward. He steadied himself, using his left hand to grip on to the side, keeping his right hand on the pistol. The wind howled around his ears, its deafening roar drowning out all other sounds.

'I'm ready for you,' he shouted, steadying his gun.

A fist from nowhere punched into his hand. The force of the blow was nerve-shattering, like being struck by a ten-iron golf club. Desperately, Matt tried to hold on to the pistol, but another blow landed, this time on his wrist. Matt squeezed the trigger, and as the gun exploded in his hand, it recoiled and fell to the floor.

We have only the weapons we were born with to fight now, realised Matt.
Our fists. And our wits.

'You're a bloody coward, Browning,' taunted Matram, his bruised and burnt face suddenly looming out of the darkness. 'That's why we didn't want you in the Increment. You don't know how to take a bullet, and you don't know how to deliver one either.'

'I might be a coward but at least I'm not a murderer,' spat Matt.

'Murder?' said Matram. 'The Increment doesn't do murders, it does assassinations. And you know what, Browning? You're next.'

'Give me your best shot, Matram,' snapped Matt. 'We'll see who walks out of here. And who has to be carried with a bunch of flowers draped over him.'

'You bottle it at the last minute, Browning,' said Matram, looking at him closely. 'That's why you're not Increment material. Not then, not now. Never will be.'

The blow landed hard on Mart's cheek. He could feel the fist colliding with his cheekbone, shattering the nerve ending and sending a vicious stab of pain juddering up towards his brain. Matt rolled with it, absorbing the force of the blow as much as he could. His back crashed into a lever on the control panel, momentarily paralysing his spine. He struggled to get a better grip on what was happening next.

He could see Matram raising his knee, about to kick him in the groin. Matt rolled sideways, and Matram's knee smashed into the softer flesh of his thigh, the muscle deflecting the blow. As he moved, Matt punched Matram hard in the windpipe. Matram's neck wriggled and shook under the force of the blow. Matt moved swiftly, drawing two feet away from him, his hand reaching back, then punching forward, smashing hard into the side of Matram's face.