'Go,' hissed Damien. 'Go.'
Matt peeled away, his heels digging into the hard tarmac of the walkway that stretched across the common. He switched on to the grass, running up a slope that led towards the sewer. At his side, he could see the dog bounding up towards Damien. He could hear it barking as Damien lifted it clean from the ground, holding it in his arms. And he could hear the sound of the man shouting at him. 'Drop the dog, drop the dog.'
Matt's feet were already pounding against the grass. His blood was starting to pump through his veins, and the oxygen was filling his lungs as he took huge gulps of air.
Behind him, he could hear shouts, scuffles. Don't look around, he told himself. Every split second counted, every few yards took him further away from their reach.
If a bullet comes, better to take it in the back. At least you won't know about it.
He swerved down the pathway heading towards the bushes that formed the barrier between the street and common. Every muscle straining to push himself further forward. Matt ran every day in Spain, sometimes four miles, sometimes five: but that was along the beach, when he was rested, and had plenty of water. Now, his throat was dry, and the sweat was pouring off his brow.
He could still hear shouting, fighting. He looked back, just long enough to see Damien fleeing in the opposite direction, a trail of anger and confusion in his wake.
Back-up, thought Matt. If they are the Increment, then there will be back-up somewhere. And there may be helicopters overhead within minutes.
He pushed forward into the bushes, dipping out of sight of his pursuers. Diving on to the ground, he threw his hands down into the mud. The spot was as he remembered it. A few planks, now rotting with age, covered by a thick fresh layer of roots and brambles. Matt tore into the ground, cutting his fingers on the brambles as he did so, but the ground opened up, and he pushed the planks aside and squeezed himself into the space.
The sewer had been built in Victorian times, and had been abandoned half a century ago. It had been fine for eight-year-old boys, but it was a tiny space for a grown man, and his shoulders were up tight against the moss-covered brick walls. There was no light and, as Matt plunged forwards, he could feel the darkness surrounding him. Some roots had grown through the tunnel but, after he pushed through those, the way opened up ahead of him: some other boys had found it, he guessed, and had cleared some of the rubbish out of the way.
Not much changes in this part of London. Small boys are always playing at running away from something.
A light. Matt could see a chink at the end of the tunnel. He kicked away the plank that covered it, bursting out into the alleyway. It had been a garage last time he had been here. Now it was the back of a Starbucks: there were a pile of empty coffee bags in the bins, and the smell of cappuccinos drifted out of the building.
He hustled his way down the alleyway that ran down the side of Starbucks and came out on to the street, anxiety still stabbing at his chest. He brushed past a mother pushing her pram, knocking the cigarette from her lips. He could hear her cursing but ignored her. He pushed on, passing a row of shops. Keep going, he told himself.
This is your only chance.
'You,' shouted a man. 'Where . . .'
Matt pressed on. Don't lead them to the house, he told himself. Wait till you know you've lost them.
He turned down a side street, running hard along the pavement, then ducked into another alley. Nobody seemed to be following. Two more streets, both taken at a hard jog. That led him back down towards the high street. He paused, taking a moment to check behind him.
Nobody.
The street was busy, crowded with people out shopping. Matt hesitated. He was aware the sweat was dripping off his face, and he was gulping down air, trying to get some oxygen back into his lungs. He bent over, taking a moment to rest, and to push some strength back into his muscles.
They think I'm a mugger. They're frightened of me, and who can blame them?
He started walking, then picked up the pace as he turned off the main street. He kept checking behind him, looking out for any signs they were on his tail. He scanned up into the sky, looking to see if there might be a helicopter. And he checked the cars sitting on the street, peering into each one as he passed it, making sure there was nobody sitting, waiting.
A cab. Matt jumped inside, barking out instructions to the driver. It was just after eleven in the morning. For the next twenty minutes, sweat was pouring off him as he checked and double-checked that there was nobody following. Then, after jumping out of the cab, he threw the door of the Hammersmith safe house open, shouting at the top of his lungs. 'Eleanor, Eleanor.'
Eleanor and Damien were sitting in the kitchen. Matt was relieved to see him, and even more relieved to see Eleanor was safe.
'Go,' Matt shouted. 'Go.'
'I'll get my stuff,' said Eleanor, starting to move.
'No,' shouted Matt grabbing the laptop. 'Just go, just go. Now.'
As they had fled the house in Hammersmith, Damien had called one of his gangster friends, and within minutes a black BMW 5 Series had driven up: safe transport to take them where they wanted. From now on, the old IRA safe houses were too risky: if the Increment knew that's where they were hiding, they would search them one by one. It was likely they knew most of the addresses. They would have to try their luck in hotels.
The Holiday Inn Express at Buckhurst Hill in Essex was twenty miles from Stansted airport, and mainly seemed to cater for people flying in and out of east London. There were a few businessmen in transit, and some stewardesses from Ryanair.
We stay half a step ahead. That's the best we can hope for.
He took the keys from the check-in clerk, and walked up the single flight of stairs to their room. Eleanor was following close behind. Ivan had already supplied them with false names and passports plus some more cash. The new identities worked well enough, and the receptionist had not noticed the uncertainty with which Matt signed his new name, Keith Todd.
Pay cash, use different names, and we're still hard to track down.
He closed the door behind him, shutting it softly. There was nothing unusual about the room. Pale blue carpets, pastel duvet, magnolia walls: it was standard corporate design, the same as a thousand hotel rooms right across the country. But for a moment, Matt could feel some of the tension starting to ease out of his limbs. They were alone, unwatched.
They were safe. For now.
'How else can they get to you?' said Eleanor. 'They got to Gill because they thought they might get to you through her.' She paused. 'Who else is there?'
'There's Damien,' answered Matt, looking back at Eleanor. 'But he already knows they're on to him.' Matt paused, using a towel from the bed to wipe the sweat from his brow. 'Then Ivan. The Firm knows all about Ivan. They're old friends, go back a long way. But he knows how to be careful.'
He threw the towel back on the bed, looking around to see if there was an air-conditioning switch somewhere: the temperature outside seemed to be at least forty degrees, and the air blowing through the hotel was hotter than the fumes from a car exhaust. 'And you? How can they get to you?'
'They know about Ken, but that's no good to them. He's dead, and so is Sandy.'
Matt nodded. 'Who else? Mum? Dad?'
'Mum's dead, Dad went on holiday to Portugal. I don't even know how to get hold of him.'
'How about a boyfriend?'
Matt couldn't be sure, but he sensed Eleanor was blushing: a touch of crimson was flushing through her cheeks. 'No, there's nobody.'
Matt smiled. It was stupid, but he was pleased. 'You're sure? Even an ex. Doesn't matter if it was a couple of years ago. They might still track him down, start trying to beat some information out of him.'
Eleanor shook her head. 'No,' she answered. 'I've been busy, you know, what with the work. It's hard to find the space for other people sometimes.'
'Spare me the woman's magazine article,' said Matt.
He walked towards the window, pushing the curtain aside, already regretting having snapped at her: the tension was eating away at him, and he was taking it out on anyone. The hotel looked over a small garden, then backed on to the car park. In the distance, he could see the planes cruising into Stansted, their thick trails of vapour smudged across the sky. Then he could feel Eleanor's arms snaking around his back, her touch warm against his skin. 'Maybe you're cross,' she said, the hint of a tease in her voice. 'Maybe you were worried about there being someone else?'
Matt turned round, his lips colliding with hers. His tongue pressed down against her lips, and his hands started to ripple down her body, pushing back her long blonde hair, and tugging at the buttons of her blue blouse. Below, he could feel her hands dragging at his jeans, pulling him down on to the bed. Sex and danger, he reflected, as his arms pinned her back down on the mattress, pushing her down.
One inevitably leads to the other.
TWENTY-ONE
Matt snapped the phone shut. 'That was Ivan,' he said, looking across at Eleanor.
She was dressed only in a white sheet. Her hair was rumpled, and her skin still had a thin layer of sweat covering it. To Matt, she had never looked better.
'What next?' she asked.
'He's been trying to investigate the numbered accounts,' he said. 'He's tried all his contacts. Nothing.'
Eleanor looked exasperated. 'Is there no way of finding out?'
Matt nodded, his expression sombre. 'There's always a way,' he replied. 'If you're prepared to use enough force.'
'Such as?'
'Those two accounts you found on Lacrierre's computer were both registered at the Deschamps Trust: just numbers, no names,' said Matt. 'We have to know who those accounts belong to. Ivan's hacker mates tried to break into the computers but it's too secure. It would take weeks.'
'So how?'
'Regiment rules,' said Matt. 'When you want something bad enough you just go and get it. Somebody stands in your way, you push them aside.' He paused, pulling his T-shirt back on. 'Ivan's got the name and address of the manager of the London branch of the bank. I'm going to pay him a visit.'
The house was neat suburbia, one of a row on the outskirts of Epping. Nicholl Road was just behind the sports centre, close to the high street. The houses were 1930s semis: neat, ordered boxes, with neat, ordered families, supplying the workforce for the City of London, a few miles to the west.
Matt parked the car, an ancient Volvo he'd picked up from a dealer near the hotel, a hundred yards from the target. Eleanor was back in their room, and Ivan had arranged to meet him later. The avenue was lined with cedar trees and, in the distance, he could see a pair of small girls arguing over which of them should play with the Barbie scooter. Way past your bedtime, he thought. He jammed on the handbrake, and took a moment to relax himself: breathing deeply, he closed his eyes for a few seconds, shutting out everything but his own thoughts.
The most important moment in any job was the mental preparation.
That, ultimately, determined whether the dice rolled with you or against you.
He noted it was fast getting dark. Slamming the door shut, he started walking down the street: fast enough to look like he was going somewhere, slow enough that he could examine the house. A light was shining from the front room of Number Seventeen, and a couple of lights were on upstairs. According to the information he had been given, Alan Thurlow lived with his wife and twelve-year-old daughter. Chances were all three of them were going to be home at nine o'clock on a Thursday night.
Let's hope he talks easily, doesn't try to do anything stupid or brave.
The last thing I need is a fight.
Matt paused outside the house, bending down, pretending to tie his shoelace. In this part of Essex all the big family houses were worth a million, and it was convenient for the office in the City: the train ran straight into Liverpool Street. The windows were open in the front room. Like everyone in Britain, the Thurlows were desperate to get some air into the house. The sound of the television was drifting out into the street. Even from here he could recognise the voices of the actors. Thursday night. That meant
The Bill
on ITV.
A nice regular evening in, for a nice regular family.
Thurlow worked for the Deschamps Trust, a small private bank headquartered in Luxembourg. A hundred years old, it provided banking and financial advice for a small group of wealthy clients. Like every bank based in Luxembourg, its main strength was secrecy: accounts were numbered, they didn't pay any tax, and there was no way of finding out who owned them.
Not unless you were prepared to bang the door down.
Standing up, Matt started walking towards the end of the street. The two girls were still fighting over the Barbie scooter in their front garden: the bigger one had taken it, but the smaller one was crying, shaking her tiny fists in anger. We're always fighting over something, thought Matt, as he doubled back, walking back down the street in the other direction.
There were different ways into the house. Round the back there would be a garden. Or up on the roof, there was probably a skylight: most houses with large attics had them, so people could see their way around.
Matt scanned the street. At Number Fifteen, there were no lights. Perhaps they were on holiday, he figured. He checked the house. The dustbins were empty as well. Definitely on holiday. He hopped over the bins, and climbed through the wooden gate that led through the back garden. The lawn was parched and drying out. No one to water it, he decided. They're away.
Examining the back of the house, the drainpipe looked the best way up. Looking up, he could see one skylight. If this one had one, so would Number Seventeen. All these houses were identical.
Slipping off his shoes, he climbed the pipe and started to crawl across the roof: no point in making any more noise than he had to. At the edge of Number Seventeen, he clung on to the guttering to steady himself. Safe.
The skylight was just a few yards away from him: a five-foot rectangle of glass, framed with metal. There was some rust around the edges. Nobody ever bothered to check their skylight, judged Matt: they couldn't see them so they didn't worry about them. The only people who ever used them were the guys who came around to put your Sky dish on the roof.
This one will break like a piece of jelly.
Matt stabbed his six-inch hunting knife into the space between the frame and slate. The putty was old and flaking, and came away easily enough. A crack opened up between the skylight and roof: enough space for Matt to dig his fingers in, grip, then pull it free. It made a noise, but not enough to be heard over the TV. Levering himself down with his forearms, Matt dropped into the attic.
A mess, he thought, switching on a miniature torch and looking around. The loft had been converted into a spare room, a snooker room and a shower, but it didn't look like anyone came up here very often. He glanced at the old toys, a pram, boxes of papers and books: it looked as if the Thurlows had lived here for years and never thrown anything away. He picked his way through the debris, suppressing a sneeze.
At the back there was a stairway. Matt checked to make sure there was no one below, then scuttled down to the first floor of the house. He glanced along the corridor. Downstairs, he could still hear the noise of the TV: the news was on now, and he could hear something about how Tony Blair was appointing a Heat Tsar to cope with the hot weather. Ahead of him, there was a door displaying a Justin Timberlake poster, and the sound of some music.
Matt approached the door, his breathing slowing. He took another moment to compose himself. The next few minutes were going to be a short, nasty outbreak of anger and pain. There was nothing he could do to soften the suffering he was about to inflict on these people. It was in a greater cause maybe, but that wouldn't make it any better for them. It never does.
It's soldiering, he told himself.
You might have been out of the game for a while, but you still know how to do violence. And sometimes innocent bystanders have to get hurt.
Matt pushed the door aside. The girl was lying on her bed, listening to some music coming out of her computer. A mobile was in her hand, her fingers tapping out a text message. Twelve, with short black hair, and a soft, chubby face that she still needed a few more years to grow into. Nice normal kid, thought Matt.
She'll get over this one day.
He moved swiftly across the floor, his hand clamping down on her mouth before she had a chance to scream. Matt could feel her saliva against his palm as he increased the pressure on her lips. Her arms and legs were kicking out, but she had too little strength to inflict any damage worse than a few scratches. With his right hand still stuck over her mouth, Matt flashed the hunting knife out with his left hand, jabbing it towards her, so the point of the blade was tipping into the centre of her throat.
'Do exactly as I say and you will be all right,' he whispered in her ear.
Matram paused in front of the television, turning the sound down. A silence fell over the hotel room, the eight members of the unit looked back at him. 'This is the second time the target has evaded capture,' he said, drawing out the words. 'I want to know what happened.'
Nobody answered.
Matram took a step forward, his hands crossed behind his back. 'I said I want to know what happened,' he shouted.
'The target made a clever escape,' said Snaddon, standing up.
'The man we were tasked to follow confronted us,' said Trench, standing up next to her. 'I think they must have realised who we were and what we were there for, sir.'
'The target started running while we were distracted,' added Snaddon. 'By the time we gave chase, he had eluded us.'
Matram folded his arms across his chest. 'That is not good enough,' he said. 'The Increment does not tolerate failure.'
'It was a public space, sir,' said Snaddon nervously. 'The circumstances made it very difficult to take effective action.'
'It was a failure,' shouted Matram, hurling his coffee cup at the wall where it smashed. 'There are no tolerable circumstances for failure. You are the best, the most elite group in the regiment. This is inexcusable. Any more slipups like this and you will be out of here and on your way to Iraq faster than you can blink. Understand?' Matram's voice dipped dangerously, 'Now get out of my sight.'
Matt could smell the fear from the girl as he walked her downstairs, his hand still clamped across her mouth, his hunting knife still jabbing into her throat. It was sweating out of her, covering her face and her arms in a thin, damp film of cold dread.
She doesn't know who I am or what terrors I might inflict on her, thought Matt.
I could tell her I'm one of the good guys, but right now I don't think she'd believe me.
Matt shoved her from the back, making her stumble down the stairs. There was a noise as her heel cracked against one of the banisters. 'Lucy?' shouted her mother from the main room. 'That you?'
Another shove. The girl moved faster this time, tumbling into the hallway. Matt gripped her tighter, edging her towards the doorway.
'Don't move,' he shouted. 'Stay completely still, do exactly what I tell you, and everyone's going to be OK.'
They moved. Alan Thurlow started to rise from the sofa, his wife Alice at his side. Civilians, thought Matt. No brains. Tell them not to move and they start wriggling around like a worm on a hook.
He pushed Lucy into the centre of the room. 'I said stay still.'
They sat back in the sofa, their expressions paralysed by shock. Thurlow was a man of almost fifty, in good shape, but with thinning black hair, and glasses that rested on the end of a long, thin nose. Alice was thin, blonde, with sharp blue eyes and an expression that looked to have settled in middle age into permanent disdain. Both of them watched Matt closely, tracking his movements with their eyes, following the blade of his knife as it hovered close to their daughter's throat.
'Just don't hurt her,' said Alice. 'Just leave her alone. We'll do anything you want.' She rose and moved towards Matt, as if she was about to pounce upon him, while her husband was still shrinking back in his chair. When it came to protecting children, Matt noticed, women were always far more courageous than men.
'Get back,' he ordered, and Alice stopped in her tracks.
'Who are you?' stammered Thurlow.
'Doesn't matter who I am, you're better off not knowing,' said Matt. 'I'm not here to hurt you if I don't need to. I just want some information. Give it to me, and this will all be over in a few minutes.'
Matt watched as the man leant forward slightly. That hadn't been the answer he was expecting. A robber, or a rapist maybe: that was what he had taken Matt for. Not a man looking for answers.
'What kind of information?' he said.
Matt pulled on Lucy's hair, so the bare white skin of her throat was thrust up. Better to let her parents get a good look at it: then they could start imagining the kind of damage that would be inflicted on her if they didn't cooperate. 'I'm going to give you the numbers of two accounts with Deschamps Trust.' He paused, looking directly down at the man. 'I want to know who those accounts belong to. Tell me, and I'll be out of here.'
He could see Thurlow looking first at his wife, then at his daughter before looking back at Matt. 'That's impossible,' he said. 'The bank never reveals the names of its account holders.'
'Just do it,' growled Matt.
'Anyway, I'm at home, I couldn't do it from here.'
'We can't,' said the wife. 'We would if we could.'
'Silence,' shouted Matt. He flashed the blade across Lucy's throat, allowing its strengthened steel to press harder into her skin. 'You have a computer, you can access the records from here.' With his left hand, he unfolded a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, pushing it across the room. 'These are the numbers. Now, give me the names.'