Killing for the Company (17 page)

‘Who
do
you think she is?’

But Chet didn’t answer.

She looked up at him again. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For helping me.’

Chet shrugged. Suddenly his leg was very sore, and as he stepped into the room his limp was more pronounced than usual.

‘Your leg?’

He frowned. Then, after a moment, he pulled his trouser leg up a few inches to reveal the sturdy black shin of his artificial leg. Suze’s eyes widened but, he noticed, she didn’t look appalled. ‘I didn’t realise . . .’ she said. ‘How did it happen?’

‘I had a little disagreement with a man called Ivanovic. It was some time ago.’

‘That looks like more than a disagreement.’

‘He wanted to kill me. I didn’t want him to.’

‘Were you in the military?’ Suze asked.

‘You could say that.’

A pause.

‘Does it . . . does it
hurt
?’

Chet didn’t want to discuss his disability. There were more urgent topics. ‘Tell me, why were you eavesdropping on that meeting?’

Suze bit her lip and looked as though she was gathering her thoughts. ‘It’s the Grosvenor Group,’ she said at last.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you know who they are?’

Chet walked over to the window and looked out. The rain was still sheeting. It hammered against the window. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Dickheads in suits?’

‘You work for them?’

‘I’m a freelance security consultant. They pay me to debug rooms, that’s all. It’s not like I’m sitting round the board table.’

‘Of course not. You’re not the kind of person they want.’ She took a few deep breaths and looked around nervously. ‘They can’t find us here, can they?’

Chet shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Suze closed her eyes briefly and carried on talking – slowly and in fragments, as though she was unsure of herself. ‘The Grosvenor Group . . . it’s an American . . . a multinational . . . a kind of . . .’ A look of frustration crossed her face as she searched for the right word. ‘. . . A
conglomeration
of venture capitalists. They invest money in other, smaller companies . . . sometimes they buy them out totally . . .’ She gave an apologetic little smile. ‘I don’t really understand how all that stuff works.’

Nor did Chet. As far as he could tell, the Grosvenor Group was a bunch of money men. In his book, that meant arseholes.

Another crash of thunder, and the rain gave a renewed burst against the windowpanes. Suze stood up and started pacing the room. Suddenly her green eyes were flashing. ‘The Grosvenor Group mostly puts its money into military enterprises – arms companies, aerospace, that kind of thing.’ She stopped pacing. ‘Basically, they invest in people killing other people.’

Yeah, Chet thought. Welcome to the world.

‘The Grosvenor Group makes a lot of money,’ Suze continued. ‘I mean, like, a
lot
of money. Billions. You don’t make that kind of cash without influence. Their board is like a . . . a
Who’s Who
of Western politics. Former American senators, people with influence in Washington and Whitehall, politicians who might one day return to office. They’ve even got former US presidents advising them.’

Chet shook his head. ‘So some politicians are involved in the arms trade. That doesn’t explain why somebody’s trying to kill us.’

Suddenly she turned. ‘For God’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you
see
? If the US and the UK go to war in Iraq, it’ll be like all the Grosvenor Group’s Christmases have come at once. Arms concessions, reconstruction deals.’

‘People have always made money out of war, Suze.’

She stared at him contemptuously. ‘And for some people, it’s all they care about. My father was killed by a landmine in Angola. He was out there immunising kids.
You
might think it’s OK to sell shit like that.
I
don’t. Where’s that bloody tape?’

Chet walked over to his rucksack and rummaged around. He pulled out the Dictaphone and handed it to Suze, who sat back down on the edge of the bed and started fiddling with the controls.

For a while there was no sound in the room other than the rain against the window and the rewinding of the cassette. When Suze pressed play, all Chet heard was the crackly static that had filled his ears when he’d listened in with the headphones the day before, which morphed every ten or fifteen seconds into the sound of distorted, indistinguishable voices. He looked at Suze. She was hunched over the machine, her face intent.

They’d been listening for a couple of minutes when, all of a sudden, the static and distortion evolved into something recognisable.

‘
. . . it’s extremely important that any funds payable now or in the future cannot be traced.
’

‘
Prime Minister, that’s a given. We’re very good at it . . .
’

‘
How do you propose to . . . ?
’

The voices disappeared for a few seconds, replaced with a high-pitched whine of feedback. When that faded, the American was speaking again.

‘
. . . worldwide network of business associates. If we ask them, they’ll offer you consultancy fees, speaking arrangements – all highly lucrative, Prime Minister.
Highly
lucrative. And untraceable to the Grosvenor Group. Hell, you won’t even need to rely on your memoirs for a pension. You could give the advance to charity. You’ll be raking it in from all . . .
’

Static.

Distortion.

Chet stared at the machine as the implications of what he’d just heard sunk in.

It continued to play for another minute, before he heard words that were more familiar to him.

‘
Trust me, Prime Minister Stratton. This war is good to go . . . the Americans are all on board. The question is, how are
you
going to get it through . . . ?
’

More static.

Suze stopped the tape and looked up at him.

Chet had a sick sensation in his stomach. At the same time he felt as though a fog had been lifted. ‘The Grosvenor Group are
paying
Stratton to take us to war? Paying him
personally
?’

Suze stared hopelessly at him.

Chet thought about his Regiment mates – behind enemy lines, if his guess was right; he thought of the regular green army troops, preparing to move on Baghdad. How many of them would make it home?

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Nobody. Only us.’

‘Aren’t you part of some protest group – activists?’

Suze shook her head almost apologetically.

‘Where did you get the laser listening device?’ he asked. The question had been nagging him for a while.

‘The Internet. There’s a guy who . . .’ She gave him a hopeless look. ‘I spent everything I had . . .’ It seemed like she was telling the truth.

Chet tried to clear his head. So many things suddenly made sense: Stratton’s meeting on the QT, away from Downing Street; the relentless assassin, tracking down first him, then Suze. The order had clearly gone out to eliminate them, and that order would stand for as long as they stayed alive.

Unless . . .

‘
It’s extremely important that any funds payable now or in the future cannot be traced . . .
’

Chet was trained to make the best use of the materials at his disposal, and right now that tape was their best weapon. Their
only
weapon. A scant resource, and they had to use it wisely.

‘What are we going to do?’ Suze asked.

Chet looked around the room. Hiding out here was OK for a bit, but it wasn’t a long-term solution.

‘We make it public,’ he said.

Suze blinked at him. ‘Won’t that . . . ?’

‘As soon as this is in all the papers, Stratton and the Grosvenor Group will have bigger fish to fry.’

‘Are you sure?’

Chet gave her a direct look. ‘No. Not really. But we haven’t got a choice. They
will
find us, Suze. Eventually. Somehow. They
will
find us.’

She swallowed hard. ‘All right,’ she said, her voice timid.

‘Until then, we stay dark. We don’t contact anyone. We avoid populated areas where we might get picked up on CCTV. We don’t use mobile phones, bank cards or passports. And you stay close to me, you understand?’

Suze nodded, and Chet limped over to the window again. The storm was raging, the rain hammering against the window and the night was black. That was something, at least.

‘I’m scared,’ Suze said.

‘Good,’ Chet replied. ‘Stay scared. That way you don’t mess up.’

He turned to look at her and saw that fear was written clearly on her face. He didn’t blame her, because he felt it too.

The sound of the rain was joined by the sound of the shower in the en-suite bathroom. Chet paced, waiting for Suze to finish. Even though she was only in the adjoining room, he felt edgy not having her in his line of sight.

The shower stopped and the door opened. Suze appeared. Her red hair was clean and scraped back off her face, some of it sticking to the nape of her neck. She wore a towel wrapped around her torso that revealed her slim arms and her slight, sloping shoulders; and she was carrying a little bundle of her clothes in front of her. Her lips were slightly parted. She looked beautiful, but fragile. Like she could break at any minute. Suddenly she was no longer the crazy girl on the roof or the frightened target of a ruthless assassin. She was a young woman – vulnerable, certainly, but attractive and looking at Chet with an expression he understood.

‘I feel better now I’m clean,’ she said. There was a slight tremor in her voice, and Chet could tell she was trying to sound conversational.

‘I can wait in there if you want to get changed,’ he offered.

Suze didn’t answer. Instead she put her clothes in an untidy pile on the floor, then took a tentative step towards him. Another step, and when she was close enough she rested her head against his chest.

They stood there like that for a moment. Awkwardly. Chet could hear her nervous breathing, and feel the beat of her pulse against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and then another. Suze felt tiny in his embrace. Her damp hair soaked through his shirt, and its fragrance filled his senses. It smelt good.

A boom of thunder. Suze was startled. ‘When will this bloody storm finish?’ she whispered. As if, in the grand scheme of things, a storm was important.

She looked up towards Chet and he felt her breath against his face. Her body was warm.

‘You should get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Take the bed. I’ll . . .’

‘I’m sorry about the things I said to you,’ she interrupted him.

‘No . . .’

He didn’t finish, because suddenly – as if she might lose the courage if she didn’t act immediately – Suze had brushed her lips against his. Chet frowned. It had been a long time since anybody had given him that kind of attention; since anybody had seen past the scars on his face or his awkward gait.

Suze stepped backwards. There was no smile on her face; just a kind of nervousness, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had just done. Especially here. Especially now.

‘I need to wash,’ Chet told her. His words were stilted.

Suze glanced at the floor. ‘Right . . .’ she said. ‘OK . . .’ She watched him as he limped self-consciously past her and into the bathroom.

It was still steamy in there from her shower. Chet had to wipe the condensation from the mirror, and he only had a few seconds to look at his tired, scarred face before it misted over again. He unbuttoned his shirt and splashed cold water over his face and torso, hoping it would clear his mind as well as his skin. It didn’t. The words on the tape replayed themselves in his head, and the smell of Suze’s freshly washed hair lingered in his senses. She was scared. Vulnerable. That much was obvious. She was relying on him to protect her. Chet was no psychologist, but it wasn’t too hard to work out that her advances just now were a symptom of that.

Images rose in his mind. The intruder in his room, her face full of steely purpose. Doug, his friend, dead, broken and spattered in his own gore on the railway track. Despite all his setbacks, the guy had been so full of life. And now . . .

Chet winced at the memory.

The wind howled outside once more, and a fresh wave of rain battered the window. For a moment Chet forgot about shadowy intruders and corrupt politicians. It was bleak outside and they were alone. Why shouldn’t they take comfort in each other’s company? Seize the day – that’s what soldiers always did. He wiped the mirror again. A battered face looked back out at him. Chet grabbed a towel and dried his face and upper body, before slinging it round his neck, taking a deep breath and opening the door into the bedroom.