'But have you heard of specific bravery drugs?' persisted Eleanor.
Johnson rolled his cigar around in his fingers, examining the burning tip. 'There have been experiments for years, from what I am told,' he replied. 'It's such an obvious area. Fear is the greatest enemy any general faces. It's hard to get the men to do what you want. In a sense, that's what all military life is about. The square-bashing, the discipline, the peer-pressured comradeship, the flag-waving. It's all about getting men to overcome the most obvious of emotions. Which is that it's bloody frightening being shot at, and the most natural thing in the world is to run away.'
The cigar had started to ebb. Matt was beginning to tire of the history lesson. The professor took out his lighter, igniting it, sending a flame shooting upwards. His eyes darkened behind the crimson light, and just a bead of sweat was apparent on his forehead. 'About five years ago, I heard work in that area was being stepped up. In America, in particular, but in this country as well. At a place called the Farm.'
'That's where we think the drug was tested,' said Matt. 'What do you know about it?'
'All very hush-hush,' said Johnson. 'Places like Porton Down got a lot of publicity, but the Farm was where all the really secret work was done. As I said, about five years ago, they started doing a lot of work on parapsychology. And they had some nasty incidents.'
'Men going crazy?' asked Eleanor.
'I believe so,' replied Johnson. 'A couple of staff died in unpleasant circumstances. Again, nothing on public record. There was a man who used to work there, but he became disenchanted with the place. After that, he got in touch with CND, and that's how I met him. There was something dangerous going on there. He might be able to help you out. He's called George Caldwell. Lives near Chippenham. He can tell you what you need to know.'
'We need all the help we can get,' said Matt. He stood up, taking Eleanor by the arm. It was time for them to go. 'Thanks for your help, Professor,' he said, shaking him by the hand.
'You sure you haven't taken the drug?' said Johnson, looking closely at Matt.
Matt shook his head.
'Because you have to be a very brave man to take this on,' he continued. 'You can be certain of one thing. If the drug was tested in Britain, and if it had the side effects you say it did, then they won't let you live. They can't afford to.'
He looked hard at both of them. 'If you and your friend are determined to investigate this, then you have to take precautions. You probably shouldn't even be talking to me.'
As they drove away, Eleanor said: 'Are we going to see Coldwell?'
'No,' said Matt, 'I'm driving you home. We just got all information we need. It's time to confront Lacrierre.'
The house commanded a wide view over the rolling countryside of the Chilterns. About forty miles from London, and just a couple of miles from Junction Five of the M40, it was a grand Georgian residence, set in ten acres of landscaped parkland. Not much change out of five million, thought Matt, as he parked the Porsche on the circular strip of gravel outside the main entrance.
'And who are you?' said the man who opened the door.
A butler, or some other kind of flunky, Matt couldn't tell. 'I'm here to see Mr Lacrierre,' he said firmly. 'It can't wait.'
The servant looked at him disdainfully.
You can't pull that trick with me, pal.
I'm a soldier. Humiliation doesn't bother me.
'Mr Lacrierre is busy, sir. He left instructions not to be disturbed. Maybe you could phone his office for an appointment.'
Matt reached out, grabbing the man's right hand. He held it tight between his fists, twisting it around until the veins in his wrist started to bulge. He looked up into the man's eyes, waiting until he could see the moment of maximum pain. 'The time for making appointments has passed,' he said. 'Now give him this message. Tell him Leonid Petor is here to see him.'
'Who?'
Matt gripped his hands together, using all his strength to squeeze the man's twisted hand. 'Just bloody tell him.'
Matt waited in the hallway, while the flunky scuttled away. The floor was laid with marble tiles, and the walls were decorated with oil paintings. Most were of distinguished-looking Victorian gentlemen, with a few dog-and-horse scenes thrown in.
The butler looked sullen, and was still nursing his hand, as he showed Matt towards the library.
'I haven't heard the name of Leonid Petor for years,' said Lacrierre, walking forward and offering Matt his hand.
'I needed to grab your attention,' said Matt, ignoring his gesture.
Lacrierre stepped away, examining Matt suspiciously. The library was filled with leather-bound books, tucked neatly on to the shelves. From a glance at the spines, Matt could tell most of them were military, in a mixture of English and French: biographies, campaign memoirs, guides to guns and weapons and battleships.
You can read about it all you want. But that doesn't mean you won't shrink when the sound of real gunfire is bursting open your eardrums.
'He's dead,' said Matt.
'I'm sorry to hear that. He was an intelligent man. One of those men who are obscure, yet brilliant. An interesting type, don't you think?'
'There's nothing interesting about being dead.'
'I suppose not,' answered Lacrierre. 'What happened to him?'
Matt took a step forward. 'Orlena shot him,' he answered. 'That was just a couple of minutes before I shot her.'
He watched closely. He wasn't certain, and it was only there for a fraction of a second, but he thought he could see a flicker of surprise pass across Lacrierre's face.
'So many people appear to have died,' he said. 'I don't know where I'm going to get the wreaths from.'
'Perhaps you should get one for yourself while you're at it.'
Lacrierre attempted a half-smile. 'Do sit down.'
'I'd rather stand,' answered Matt.
Lacrierre coughed. 'Orlena was a valued employee. Maybe you could tell me what happened?'
'XP22,' said Matt. 'A drug. It makes men brave, but it makes them crazy. Apparently Petor developed it, then you bought it from Leshko. That's what the whole job was about, wasn't it? It was a cover-up.' He leant forward, so close he could smell the aftershave sweating off Lacrierre's skin. 'I don't know any more than that, but I'd like you to tell me.'
'Don't bother about XP22, Matt,' said Lacrierre. 'It was all a long time ago. A lot of scientific material came out of the old Soviet Union. Some of it was useful, most of it rubbish. It's history.' He stepped aside, his eyes scanning the row of books on the shelves, not looking back at Matt. 'Your work is done, you'll be paid, let's bury it.'
'Men are dying all over the country,' said Matt. 'I can't bury it.'
Lacrierre turned round to face him. His eyes were blazing with anger and his lips drawn tight over his mouth. Matt could see Lacrierre pressing a button. Immediately two men entered the room: tall and stocky, with tousled black hair and dressed in black jeans and blue T-shirts, they looked like former French soldiers.
'Don't try and intimidate me,' snarled Matt. 'It won't work.'
The air between them was thick with anger, and Matt could sense the violence in Lacrierre's expression. Suddenly Lacrierre smiled. 'I suppose I should be grateful to both you and Eleanor,' he said slowly. 'For bringing these disturbing matters to my attention. Now let's see if we can resolve this calmly . . .'
Matt turned away. The two guards were advancing threateningly towards him, and although every instinct within him was telling him to stand and fight, he knew that would be a mistake. They started to push him roughly out of the room towards the front door, and Matt staggered down the steps on to the gravel.
Lacrierre's words had struck home. If Lacrierre knew about Eleanor, then she was in danger, Matt realised.
Terrible danger.
The streets around this part of Brixton were mostly bedsits and small flats. Old Victorian terraced houses had been split up into rabbit warrens of tiny, nasty apartments, often rented out to asylum seekers by profiteering landlords who knew the government would pay the rent. The roads were covered with litter, broken-down cars, and off-licences with thick metal grilles hanging over the windows to stop anyone stealing the booze.
Matt took one look, then jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator of the Porsche.
If she was here, then she was in danger.
His eyes scanned down the street, darting left and right. No sign of her. But he could see a car, a Vauxhall Omega, outside the house, and inside it two motionless figures. Waiting.
It's them.
Twenty minutes earlier, he'd been at Charing Cross Hospital, asking one of her colleagues where Eleanor was. Not here, he'd been told. Gone on a house call. A house call? asked Matt. She's a researcher, she doesn't do home visits, she doesn't even see any patients. The man had just shrugged, said he didn't know, but the big cheeses at the hospital wanted her to go take a look. Bollocks, Matt had thought.
It's a trap.
He'd bullied the address out of the secretary, then climbed back in the car. Eleanor didn't drive, he knew that much. She'd be getting public transport; that gave him a chance of getting there before her. He had battled his way through the traffic into Putney, then turned down towards Brixton, swearing to himself as he struggled to find Wellington Road. As he drove, the same thought was hammering into his head.
What if I'm too late?
Should have bought a different car, realised Matt, as he steered his Porsche into the side of the road.
Then again, all the drug dealers round here drive Porsches and Mercs. Maybe I just look like a local.
He slipped out of the car and started walking, his head bowed, taking care not to draw any attention to himself. Dressed in black jeans and a grey polo shirt, he blended easily enough into the drab surroundings. He looked down the road. Number Thirty-One was the house she was meant to be visiting. He stole a glance towards it. The bottom two windows were boarded up, one of the ground floor-windows was shattered, and there was a small stack of phone books and junk mail gathered on the porch.
An empty, abandoned house.
A killing field . . .
He looked further down the road. It was just after five, and there was an old lady pulling a shopping bag down the other side of the street, and a man standing on the corner talking into his mobile phone. Three spaces down the road, the Vauxhall Omega was still parked on the street. Matt could see two heads, a man and a woman, and yes they were sitting perfectly still.
There's only one kind of person who sits like that: still, inconspicuous, patient.
A trained assassin.
Suddenly Eleanor came into view. Still thirty feet away on the other side of the Vauxhall, she was turning the corner, a bag swinging at her side. She was glancing up and down the street, searching for the right number, then she started walking quickly towards it. Matt moved swiftly along the street, picking up his pace, trying to judge how quickly he could move without drawing any attention to himself. What are their orders? he wondered to himself. Will they start shooting in daylight? Will they risk injuring innocent bystanders? In the next few minutes, I'll find out.
Too quick, they'll realise I'm trying to rescue her. Too slow, they catch us easily, and we'll both get killed.
That's some choice.
He could hear a noise as he crossed the road.
'Matt,' she said, looking up at him, the surprise evident in her tone. 'What . . .'
'Shut up, and walk,' he muttered, slipping his arm around her back, keeping his voice down low.
'But, Matt . . .'
He started steering her in the opposite direction.
'Shut the fuck up and walk,' he repeated, slightly louder this time.
'Excessive hostility,' said Eleanor. 'I think you have issues.' She paused, struggling to loosen his grip. 'You're hurting me.'
'Just move,' snapped Matt.
He started to steer her past the Vauxhall. The door was opening, two people, a man and woman were climbing out. Matt looked up, catching the woman's eye. There was something in her manner that he recognised, the steadiness with which she held herself under pressure, the mechanical, practised firmness of her movements.
'Run,' he shouted. 'Run for your life.'
Using all the strength in his shoulders, he yanked Eleanor forwards, dragging her along the street. He could see the look of fear and bewilderment in her expression, but her feet were starting to pick up speed. Behind him, he could hear doors closing and then the sound of the car roaring into life, and the skid of tyres against tarmac as it turned itself round. Fifteen yards, he told himself. That will take us back to the Porsche.
Just a jew desperate yards.
'Get in the car,' he shouted, flinging Eleanor around to the other side of the car. He leapt into the driver's seat, hitting the ignition and jamming his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car was already revving furiously as Eleanor was climbing into the seat next to him. He spun away from the kerb, pushing out on to the road, Eleanor screaming that her door was still open.