'Did they fight well?'
'Not well enough, obviously,' said Matt quickly.
A stewardess stepped through from the kitchen – a striking blonde, almost as beautiful as the girls in his office – and placed a teapot and biscuits down on the table in front of them. Lacrierre poured tea for Matt and Orlena, and took a bottle of Volvic water for himself. 'A man can die while fighting well, don't you think?' he said. 'It depends on whether the dice roll for or against him.'
'There's no glory in death,' said Matt. 'You've been a soldier, you should know that.'
Lacrierre said nothing. Matt stirred a sugar lump into the delicate china cup, and took a sip of the tea. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'it doesn't matter. The job's done, the factory destroyed. They aren't going to bother you any more.'
Lacrierre leant forward. 'Not quite,' he said softly. 'Think of it like a hive of ants. You can crush all the ants you want to, but unless you deal with the hive, then they just crawl back out again.' He paused, looking directly at Matt. 'I need you to get the hive.'
'The factory's finished,' said Matt. 'That's what I signed up for, and the job's done.'
Lacrierre stood up. He walked towards the window, glancing out on to the passing lawns. From the desk, he removed a single sheet of paper, then walked back across the carriage and laid it down in front of Matt.
'His name is Serik Leshko.'
Matt looked at the picture. It was a single, closely cropped snapshot printed out in black and white. The man was around forty, thin with black hair, and big round but dark eyes. His nose was probably broken, and his jaws were swollen and puffy.
'He is a Belorussian businessman,' continued Lacrierre. 'An old KGB hack, now working for himself in the private sector. He is the man who built the factory, and has been counterfeiting our drugs. We can blow up his factory, but maybe he will just build another one.' Lacrierre shrugged. 'So we blow up the man.' He sat down again, looking across at Orlena, the glimmer of a smile on his face. 'Like I said, crush the hive.'
'I've completed my mission,' said Matt quickly. 'The job's done. Over.'
Lacrierre unscrewed the bottle of Volvic, poured some into a glass and took a sip. 'From Paris you will go back to Minsk,' he continued. 'He should have been at the factory, but unfortunately he wasn't. So now you will go back and kill him. And then your work will be done.'
'It is done,' snapped Matt. 'Three words, one syllable each. Something hard to understand about that?'
Lacrierre looked back at him, puzzled, then amused. 'Your job was to wipe out all traces of the formulas for these counterfeits, so these people will never trouble us again. That means there's still work to do.'
'No,' said Matt, his voice rising. 'I've told you, the Firm leant on me to do this job, and I've done it. No more.'
'Then your Firm will just have to lean on you again,' continued Lacrierre. 'I'll tell you what Napoleon once said: "Victory belongs to the man who perseveres." Well, we want you to persevere until our enemy is completely crushed.'
'Napoleon ended up a prisoner of the English,' said Matt. Then he glanced across at Orlena. 'Unless I fell asleep in my history classes.'
He looked out of the window. He could see the train moving swiftly through Ashford as it approached the Channel Tunnel. Damn you, he thought. If I could jump from this train without killing myself, I would.
'Anyway,' said Lacrierre. 'It will give you a chance to spend more time with Orlena. You two have become such good friends.'
The wind was blowing in hard from the sea, taking some of the edge off the fierce midday sun. Matram sat on the stone sea wall, and slotted his shades down over his eyes. There were a few people along the main road running down into Plymouth Harbour, but the boiling temperatures had persuaded even English tourists to stay inside. It had just hit thirty-eight degrees centigrade, the hottest day ever recorded in Britain, and the heatwave was forecast to last for another fortnight.
Simon Clipper and Frank Trench had just parked the Renault Mégane across the street, and were walk towards him. Both men were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with shades pulled down over their eyes. To the casual observer, they were just tourists looking for somewhere to have lunch.
'What's the job?' said Clipper, sitting down on the wall next to Matram.
Matram took a can of Coke, pulling it open. 'Two men this time,' he replied. 'A pair of guys called Bob Davidson and Andy Cooper, both local boys. They fish. They've got a little boat in the harbour here. This summer they've been going out in the evening because it's so hot.'
'We get them on the boat?' asked Trench.
Matram nodded. 'That's right. I've arranged a dinghy to take us out. I'll be in charge of the boat, you two need to get into the water, then sink them.'
'Can we use any explosives?' asked Clipper.
'Better not,' said Matram. 'We should be quite far out, so there shouldn't be anyone around. But sound travels a long way at sea. An explosion could easily be heard for miles.'
Matram finished the Coke in one swig, crushing the can between his fists. 'Better to drown them, then scuttle the boat. That way they'll never be found, and even if they are it will look like an accident.'
Matt looked out across the Gare du Nord. It was early evening, and the station was streaming with traffic. Backpackers and students were pouring off the last Eurostar of the day, looking for cheap places to stay. Businessmen were rushing through for the last trains out to Brussels and Cologne.
He cupped the phone close to his ear. 'You do this, old fruit, and then even the encores are over,' said Abbott. 'Trust me. You can get straight back to serving sangria and chips out on the Costa del Crime.'
Just the sound of the man's voice was grating on Matt's nerves: every time he had to speak to him, ripples of annoyance ran down his spine. Lacrierre had dropped them at the station, and Orlena was standing a few yards away. The tickets from Charles de Gaulle airport were already in her hands.
'One hit, another hit,' said Matt angrily. 'I need to know how I can get your claws out of my back.'
'I'm telling you,' repeated Abbott. 'This one, then it's over. I've spoken to Lacrierre. He likes you. He likes the way the factory was taken down, and he just needs someone he can rely on to take out the guy who's organising it. Then it's done. Problem solved.'
Matt took a sip on the coffee he'd bought at the station. 'What's Lacrierre got on you?'
'As soon as you get a chance, check your accounts.'
'Which one?'
'The current account, Matt.' Abbott paused. 'The others are still blocked. It's like magic, you see, old fruit. Matt's a good boy, the account opens. Matt's a bad boy, the account closes.'
'I get my own money back, and I'm supposed to be grateful?'
'That one's just a gesture of goodwill. Get back out east and do the hit, and the rest will be open as well. Like I said, the slate will be wiped clean.'
Matt buried his face in his hand. There was always some trouble somewhere, and the Firm always needed men to sort it out for them. It was just as Ivan had said it would be.
'One more hit, Matt,' repeated Abbott. 'What difference can it make to a man with as much blood on his hands as you?'
Matt leant into the phone. 'Where's Gill? I haven't heard from her . . .'
'The sexy playgroup leader?' he said, a giggle playing on his lips. 'Buggered if I know, old fruit. Probably shagging the waiter back at the Last Strumpet.'
Matt paused. 'It's not like her to be out of contact for so long,' he said. 'I want to know if the Firm have anything to do with that.'
'Do the hit, old fruit,' he said. 'Then you can sort out your love life. It's called prioritising. I can lend you a book on it, if you like.'
Matt was about to respond: the fury was building in his chest, searching around for the words to express it. But the mobile had already gone dead in his hand. Orlena slipped her arms around his waist, pointing towards the taxi rank. 'Come on,' she said softly. 'It's time to go.'
Matram could feel the dinghy swaying beneath him. The breeze had dropped since midday, but it was still gusting strongly through the English Channel, whipping up foam on the top of the waves.
The old pirates along the Devon and Cornish coast had the right idea.
At sea nobody can see you kill a man.
They had been on the water for almost an hour now, and Matram figured they were about a mile off the coast. Earlier in the day, he had fitted a small electronic tracker to the bottom of the target's boat. It was transmitting a signal up to a GPS satellite, and that was transmitting its precise location back down to him.
We can watch it as if it were right in front of our eyes.
'Another five minutes to impact,' he shouted across the stern of the boat. 'Ready yourselves.'
Clipper and Trench were both kitted out with wetsuits, with only their blacked-up faces visible. On to their backs they had strapped oxygen canisters, and they had flippers on their feet. Both of them had two thick steel hunting knives strapped to their belts, but otherwise they were unarmed. They were sitting calmly at the prow of the boat, looking out to sea as the vessel rocked through the waves.
The moonlight was glancing across the ocean, lighting up the path ahead. No clouds were cluttering up the sky, and Matram judged they would have good visibility for the rest of the night.
He looked down at the GPS display, adjusting the engine to the right to shift the direction of the dinghy. They would take the boat to within a kilometre of the target, then kill the engine.
Matram put a pair of Bushnell 20 × 50 high-powered surveillance binoculars to his eyes. They were designed for birdwatchers, but with a twentyfold magnification, and a thousand-metre range, he found them better than any of the kit the regiment issued. Adjusting the focus, he could see the boat drifting across the horizon. Two men were sitting on its deck, their lines cast out into the water. Like ducks, he thought.
Waiting to get shot at.
Turning round, Matram killed the engine. 'Go,' he whispered.
Clipper and Trench broke through the surface of the waves with hardly a ripple, then disappeared below the water. As he watched them disappear, Matram checked his watch. Fifteen minutes past midnight. Within ten minutes both men should be dead.
He rested the binoculars on his lap, looking out into the water. To the naked eye, the boat was just a speck on the surface of the water. It could easily be a trick of the light.
I can see them, but they can't see me.
Putting the Bushnell back up to his eyes, Matram counted down the moments. It was the minute before an assault he enjoyed the most. He could feel the anticipation pricking his skin, and the excitement brought out a gentle sweat on his forehead.
You could taste it a thousand times, but every assassination had its own special flavour.
A shadow broke through the surface of the water. Even at this distance, he could see the boat rock and sway as Clipper and Trench punched through the water, and scrambled on board. He increased the magnification, but at this distance it was impossible to make out much of the detail. He could see one of the men standing, and then another bending over, clutching his stomach in agony as a knife plunged into his stomach. The second man jumped backwards, losing his footing, crashing down to the bottom of the boat. Matram could see a knife slashing down at him. Within a minute, the scene had fallen quiet again. Then he could see weights being strapped to the two corpses as they were tossed into the waves. Next, he could see the boat list from side to side, as Clipper and Trench started to cut away at its side, shipping water into its hull.
A burial at sea, reflected Matram as he watched the boat disappear beneath the waves. They were soldiers once.
They should be grateful for the death we have delivered them.
FOURTEEN
Malenkov looked at him suspiciously, rubbing his hand into the stubble on his chin. 'The last time I worked with you, my son died,' he said. 'And now you think I should do it again?'
Matt leant across the table. They were back in the apartment in Kiev, having arrived on the flight from Charles de Gaulle less than two hours ago. 'I can't give you a single good reason. If I were you, I wouldn't do it either.' He glanced across to Orlena. 'But she'll give you a lot of money.'
Malenkov looked towards Orlena. She was sitting across the table, a slim leather computer case on her lap. Slowly, she pushed it across the table. Malenkov hesitated, then unzipped the case, slipping his fist inside. He pulled out a bundle of notes, holding them crumpled in his hand.
'Twenty thousand,' said Orlena crisply. 'Ten thousand dollars, ten thousand euros.'
Malenkov laughed. 'I've lost one son already,' he said, the laughter ebbing away on his lips. 'For that amount of money, you want me to lose some more?'
Orlena tapped her fingers on the notes, her nails making a small thud against the thick wads of paper. 'There's more,' she said softly. 'As much as you need.'
Malenkov stood up, his expression suddenly angry. 'And how many men will die for that kind of money?' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'And how many will be betrayed?'
'One man will die,' snapped Orlena. 'Leshko. Serik Leshko.'
Malenkov gave them a hard, penetrating stare. 'You're crazy.'
'I wish,' said Matt. 'But those are the orders.'
'Leshko is one of the richest men in Minsk,' said Malenkov. 'He's the biggest gangster this side of the Don. Everyone is afraid of him, even the government. Knocking off Vladimir Putin, that would be an easier hit.'
'We want to take him, and we want you to help us,' said Matt.
Malenkov patted the case on his lap. 'Then this is just a down payment,' he said. 'Leshko is an evil bastard, so I'd be doing the country a favour. If a man is going to throw away his life, he doesn't want to do it cheaply or pointlessly.'
The office was fiercely lit, with a view that stretched down across the centre of Minsk. It was painted pale blue, and along the back wall there was a series of televisions, all tuned to different sports channels around the world. In front of the screens was a black Labrador tethered to the leg of a desk. On the wall next to them was mounted a series of machine guns: just about every important model ever manufactured in the Soviet Union, reckoned Matt. And from their gleaming, polished appearance, all of them were in perfect working order.
Serik Leshko leant forward. 'What did you say your name was?'
'Perkins,' replied Matt calmly. 'Brian Perkins.'
'Mr Perkins is from England,' explained Malenkov, sitting at his side. 'He is looking for someone to do some manufacturing for him.'
Matt could feel his muscles drawing tighter. They had spent a day travelling by train up from Kiev to Minsk, checking into one of the few smart hotels in the city: the Best Eastern, just off Independence Square. Orlena had stayed back in Kiev: they figured she might be recognised by Leshko's men, and that would blow their cover immediately.
They had been strip-searched by two security guards on their way into the building, and neither of them was carrying a weapon of any sort. The story had, of course, already been worked out in advance. Malenkov was to arrange an introduction to Leshko, with Matt posing as an English businessman who needed some manufacturing work done. It had taken three days just to get this far. Two meetings with Leshko's henchmen to establish their credentials, and a big sum paid into an offshore bank account to make them look like serious businessmen. Leshko didn't meet just anyone: you had to prove yourself before you got in.
Matt felt certain he had his lines memorised. Yet one slip, and this man would kill them.
And there won't be a damned thing I can do about it, except to take my death with dignity.
'And what is it you want made?' said Leshko.
'David Beckham shirts, in Real Madrid colours, both home and away,' said Matt. 'I'm told you manufacture just about everything. Gucci shirts, Louis Vuitton handbags, Chanel perfumes, Moschino belts, the lot. A shirt shouldn't be a problem.'
Leshko shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. Behind him sat two striking blondes, who appeared to be there just for ornamentation. 'It's no problem,' he replied. 'You give me the sizes, the design, the colours, and I can get them made for you.'
Matt nodded. 'I'd be looking for about ten thousand a month. I could pay you one pound sterling a shirt. That's ten thousand a month, for as long as I can keep selling them.'
'I can add up for myself,' said Leshko curtly.
'It would be cash on delivery,' said Matt quickly.
Leshko nodded. 'Then it can be done. Delivery to the Belorussian–Polish border. How you get them across Europe is your problem.'
'Agreed,' said Matt. 'I look forward to doing business with you.'
'I would need a deposit,' said Leshko. 'Thirty thousand dollars, in cash. Until I have that, I can't do anything.'
Haggle, thought Matt. If I agree too quickly, it looks suspicious. 'Twenty thousand.'
Leshko stood up. He was wearing a black suit, with a dark blue shirt open at the collar. A silver cross was glittering on his smooth chest. 'I'm not a haggling man, Mr Perkins,' he said. 'I'm not a trader in a street market. I state my price, and I expect to have it paid. In full, and on time.'
'Twenty-five thousand,' said Matt.
'Not a haggling man,' repeated Leshko. Now, you can give me thirty thousand in cash tomorrow, or you can find someone else to make your shirts.'
'Agreed,' said Matt. 'But I need a safe meeting place. Just you and me.'
'Alone.' Leshko laughed. He picked up a dog biscuit from a small case on the desk, and tossed it in the direction of the Labrador. 'I never go anywhere without my guards.'
'How many?'
Malenkov leant forward. 'We just want to make sure that we can hand over the money safely,' he said.
'And if we are to do business together, we're going to have to learn to trust each other,' said Leshko. 'Don't you agree, Brian?'
Matt smiled. 'Agreed. So let's start with you telling me how many guards.'
'Two,' said Leshko. 'And we'll meet by the side of the road. That way you can be sure it will be safe.'
'Which road?' asked Matt.
'Ten miles from here,' said Leshko. 'One of my men will give you a map on the way out. At three o'clock. You bring me the money, I'll get the factories working.'
Matt stood up, and stretched out his hand. 'Good doing business with you.'
Behind him, he could hear the Labrador barking viciously.
The lay-by was hot and desolate, the cracked tarmac of the road surface dried out by the sunshine. Matt stood by the side of the road, looking out across the flat, empty farmland. It was two forty-five. The wheat fields were just approaching harvest, sending ripples of gold stretching out towards the horizon. The air was completely still, with not even a trace of cloud visible in the sky, and the sun was approaching its midday peak.
'Make sure Leshko is standing closer to the road than you are, with his back towards it,' said Malenkov, pointing out the precise spot. 'That way I have a better chance of hitting him not you.'
They were standing on the edge of the A236, one of the main roads heading out of Minsk towards the Polish border. In most countries it might be heaving with traffic, but Belarus was so poor there was only a car or a truck every hour or so.
More than enough time to kill a man.
'You think you can get Leshko and the guards at the same time?'
Malenkov shrugged. 'If you can distract them, I can kill them,' he replied.
The plan had been worked out in detail. Matt would meet Leshko at the place he had demanded: this lay-by, ten miles along the A236. Matt would be standing there by himself, while Leshko drew up in a car. Of his two guards, one would certainly stay in the car, the other would get out and stand with Leshko. Malenkov would approach them slowly in his Land Rover, raising little suspicion. At the last moment, he would accelerate, smashing the vehicle into Leshko and his guard. Matt would jump out of the way, take an AN-49 from the back of the Land Rover, turning it on the remaining guard.
'Just here,' said Matt, walking two yards to the side of the lay-by. 'This is where I will try to stand.'
Malenkov nodded. 'That should give me a straight run at them from the road.'
Matt paced the length of the lay-by, his heart thumping against his chest, and his blood rattling through his veins. It was the waiting that always got him. It was two minutes to three, and Leshko, he suspected, would be punctual: men were always on time when they were collecting money.
The moments leading up to a hit were full of silent, suffocated anxieties: a dozen different scenarios played themselves out in your mind, and at least half of them wound up with you lying dead on the floor.
Leshko is a professional. No kill is ever easy. But this one could be harder than most.
Malenkov was parked five hundred yards away, in a lay-by obscured by trees. After he saw Leshko drive past, he would wait five minutes before hitting the road. Matt was holding on to a plain black case, with thirty thousand in crisp notes stacked inside.
Suddenly, a car appeared on the horizon. It disappeared for a few minutes in a dip in the road, then there it was, some fifty yards away.
The Mercedes was black, with shaded windows. It pulled slowly into the lay-by, and from the way it braked, Matt judged the skin of the car was reinforced with armour: it juddered to a halt in a way a Merc never would unless it was carrying a lot of extra weight.
Armour, bullet-proof glass, and armed bodyguards.
These guys take their security seriously.
Matt stepped forward. The window of the car slid down, and Leshko looked out, his eyes darting around the lay-by. 'You alone?' he snapped.
Matt spread out his arms. 'Completely.'
The door opened. The guard stepped out first. A tall man, more than six foot, with broad shoulders and light sandy hair, he walked slowly up to Matt with an arrogant dismissive swagger. He was wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt and boots; from the shape of his trousers, Matt reckoned there was one pistol in his pocket, and another tucked into his shoes.
'Search,' he barked towards Matt. 'Search.'
Matt stood with his hands and legs apart. The guard frisked him roughly, thumping his skin with the back of his palm. He pulled up Matt's shirt, checking the belt of his trousers, then feeling around the edge of his shoes.
Be as rough as you like, pal. You'll be dead in a few minutes.
'Clean,' shouted the guard over his shoulder.
Leshko stepped out of the car. A thin smile was playing on his face. He took two steps towards Matt, looking greedily towards the black plastic case on the ground next to his feet. 'I apologise for the inconvenience,' he said slowly.
'T-shirts are a dangerous business,' said Matt. He allowed himself one glance up the road. Nothing. But the dip in the road meant he would only see the Land Rover as it arrived within fifty yards of the lay-by. Matt judged that Malenkov should be here within one minute.
Just time for some small talk.
He looked back towards Leshko. 'As we get to know each other, I'm sure we'll trust each other more.'
'I hope so,' said Leshko. 'You have my money?'
In his head, Matt was counting down the seconds: thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .
'Of course,' he replied calmly. 'As you requested. And when will the shirts be delivered?'
'Within one week,' said Leshko quickly. 'My factories are fast. We can make whatever you want, whenever you want it. So long as we get paid.'
Steady yourself, Matt told himself: twelve, eleven, ten . . .
He picked up the case, and started to pass it across to Leshko. 'Here, you count it.'
Matt took two steps backwards: five, four, three . . .
He didn't want to look up, but he could hear the Land Rover coming over the ridge, and the hum of its engine as it started to accelerate. It was three hundred yards away now. Leshko was opening the case, his attention momentarily captured by the notes inside. Matt could see his eyes sparkling as he feasted on the thick wedges of notes. He turned, the case in his hand, as if he were about to put it in the car. If he does, Matt realised, he'll see Malenkov.
'Why don't you count the money?' said Matt quickly. 'Then we've wrapped up the deal.'
Leshko grinned. 'Shouldn't I trust you?'
'Just count it.'