The Increment (3 page)

Matt followed him reluctantly towards the back of the restaurant. He didn't like the look of Abbott, and he could feel Penelope's and Suzie's eyes tracking them as he walked across to a table tucked into the far corner of the dining patio. A mosquito was crawling over the table. Without blinking, Matt hammered his fist down on to it.

A way of saying, I wish I could do the same to you.

'Nice place you got here,' said Abbott. He pulled out one of the black metal chairs and sat down. 'If I was a cockney gangster with a taste for leathery blondes and overcooked chicken this would be the place I'd come. Bloody marvellous.'

Matt sat down, resting his forearms on the table. 'Who
are
you?'

'Like I told you, the name's Guy Abbott. I work for a little outfit based in Vauxhall. Big green and beige building. I think you'd recognise it if you saw it.'

He fished a cigarette from his pocket, sticking it into his mouth, holding the flame of his lighter a few inches from his face. Its pale light illuminated his blotched, reddish complexion: the skin of a man who spent too much of his time behind a desk. 'You've got an account with our firm, my old fruit. And we'd like you to settle it.'

Matt looked away. The clouds were drawing closer, and somewhere out at sea he could hear the rain starting to fall. The Firm was what everyone in the regiment called it, or British Intelligence to give it its proper title. That was what he was talking about. Of that there could be no question.

I always knew they would come back for me. One day. When they wanted something.

More than a year had passed since the last job had finished. Matt and four men had done a hit on al-Qaeda, organised by the Firm. They had taken thirty million dollars in gold and jewels from a boat running the gear across the Mediterranean for the terrorists. It had been worth ten million after it was fenced. But Matt came within an inch of losing his own life.

We kept the money. And we kept some bad memories as well.

He looked back up at Abbott. 'There's no account. I don't know what you're talking about.'

Abbott smiled, revealing a set of crooked teeth. 'Why don't we get a drink? It's much more civilised to discuss these things over a glass of wine. You must have some decent stuff at the back of the bar somewhere. A nice Rioja, or something.'

Show-off, thought Matt, as he walked back to the bar. He took a bottle of red from the case, and started looking for the corkscrew. He knew exactly where it was, but made a show of searching around.
I need to buy myself some time – decide how to handle this.

He'd always known there would be a reckoning one day. For himself, he had no regrets about what he'd done. The money was rightfully his. But that didn't mean the Firm would see it that way. The Firm wasn't like that.

Matt wrenched the cork free from the bottle, grabbed two glasses and started walking back towards Abbott. A dozen different thoughts were racing through his mind. What could they want? Another mission? How could they hope to make him cooperate? They knew he wasn't going to go back to fighting. He had money in his bank account, his own business, and he was about to get married. He was his own man now.

Just act like one of those helpline people you call up when your computer's broken.
Whatever he wants, tell him he can't have it.

'You can have a drink,' said Matt, 'but that's as far as it goes. Whatever it is you want me to do, I'm not interested.'

Abbott poured himself a glass of the wine, swilling it around, then putting it to his lips. He sipped delicately, as a woman might. 'Decent drop, this. You have to come to Spain to get a reliable Rioja, don't you think? The stuff we get at home just tastes like some Aussie muck with a few oak leaves chucked in.'

Matt leant forward on the table. 'If I want a wine guide, I'll buy a book.'

'I know everything, Matt. I know about the raid on the boat. I know about the money that went missing. The lot. It's all back on the files at head office.'

He paused, lighting up another Dunhill. 'And I don't mind. The Firm's not
cross,
Matt. Not in the least. We like your style. You gave a good account of yourself. Al-Qaeda was relieved of a lot of money, and we cracked open their network in Britain. There were a few hiccups along the way, but then who ever heard of a job that ran smoothly. If there wasn't some trouble involved, they wouldn't call it work, would they?' Abbott took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the air. 'We like you so much, we were wondering if you might be able to do something else for us.'

'Thanks,' snapped Matt. 'But take a look around. I'm in a different trade now.'

'Ah, yes. The Jamie Oliver of the Costa del Crime. But it's not really you, is it, Matt? You're a man of action. If this was the life you wanted, you'd have signed up for Little Chef instead of the army. You'd have been a regional manager by now.' Abbott took another long, slow sip on his wine. 'But that's not what you want, is it? You know the worst thing a man can do? Some people reckon it's lying, others cowardice, but that's all nonsense. The worst thing a man can do is be untrue to himself. And that's what you're doing, Matt. You're a man of action, not a bloody chef and barman. This is no life for you.'

Matt smiled. A heavier breeze was blowing in from the sea now, and the clouds were drawing closer. Soon the rain would be upon them. 'I didn't realise the Firm was moving into pop psychology. Look, whatever it is you're after, I'm not interested. I've served my country, and I've got the scars to prove it. I look after myself these days.'

'Don't you want to know what it is, Matt?' There was a hint of humour in Abbott's voice, as if he was teasing him. 'At least hear what the job is.'

Matt leant back on his chair. There was something odd about Abbott's manner, something he couldn't quite place. He didn't have much experience of senior intelligence officers, but this was not how they usually appeared. Abbott was less smooth, and a lot more colourful. 'Let me ask you a question.'

'Fire away, old fruit.'

'What's the difference between the Firm and a whorehouse?'

'I think I've heard this one before,' said Abbott.

'I'll tell you,' continued Matt, ignoring him. 'In a whorehouse they take their clothes off before they fuck you.' He leant forward. 'Now, I can say it in Spanish, French, German, any damned language you like. I'm not interested. Understood?'

'OK,' snapped Abbott, 'play it your way, Browning. You got an office around here? Somewhere we can access the Internet? I want to show you something.'

Matt walked slowly back through the bar. It was filling up now, and he nodded to a couple of the regulars sitting down to dinner. One person said something, but Matt walked straight past. He was in no mood for talk. A feeling was already growing in the pit of his stomach: whatever Abbott had to show him, he wasn't going to like it.

The office was a simple annexe to the main kitchen, at the back of the building. Matt kept a desk, plus a swivel chair and a bunch of files. A Spanish accountant came in once a week to handle the books, and Janey, the manageress, did the rest of the paperwork. The papers spread across the desk were mostly architect's drawings for the new house. The computer Matt mainly used for checking his bank accounts and sending emails. He'd played the stock markets in the past but had given that up now. Like everyone else he knew, he'd lost too much money.

'This thing work?' said Abbott, pointing towards the computer.

Matt nodded.

'Switch it on, old fruit. You'll be wanting to check your bank accounts.'

Matt could feel his blood freezing. He leant across the desk, flicking the power switch on the Toshiba laptop. It took a moment to boot itself into life. Matt could hear Abbott breathing behind him, but he didn't want to look round, nor did he want to catch the man's eyes.

If the bastard's messed with my money, he'll be lucky to get out of here alive. The fish in the ocean could always use some fattening up.
There's plenty of spare meat on this guy.

Matt clicked on to the web connection. 'How do you know I bank on the Internet?' he asked, without looking back at Abbott.

'Just open it.'

'You've looked already, haven't you?' Now Matt turned round to face Abbott. 'You've no bloody right.'

'Like I said, open it,' said Abbott carefully. 'You'll discover my position gives me the right to do anything I damn well please.'

The computer was humming into life. On the screen the HSBC logo was displayed. Matt keyed in his details, then the password. The account came on to the screen. Matt pressed on Statement, the command disappearing down the modem. Within seconds, the total was flashed up on the monitor.

Zero.

He pressed Refresh on the web browser.
Might as well make sure.

Zero.

Matt drew a deep breath. He clicked on the statement. The last two transactions were the hundred euros he had taken out of the cash machine in town three days ago, and a cheque for £650 he'd sent off three days ago to settle his accountant's bill.

After that, the account just dropped from a balance of £12,287 to nothing. There was no explanation. Just an empty row of noughts.

'Check the other accounts,' said Abbott.

Matt remained silent. He had two other accounts at the bank, both of them accessible online: one was a deposit account where he was keeping some of his spare cash, earning a miserable couple of per cent interest a year. The other was a dealing account, where he'd put the bulk of his money into a series of rock-safe bond funds. It didn't earn much of a return, but at least it was still there. Until now.

'They're empty,' said Matt, not looking away from the screen.

'Empty as the jolly old Gobi Desert on a Sunday afternoon,' said Abbott. Matt could tell he was pleased with the stunt he'd just pulled. Now he was walking round to face Matt, and sitting on the edge of the desk. A small cloud of cigarette smoke was wafting above him.

'Great bunch of boys, al-Qaeda. Ever since the events of September 11, my lot have more power than we know what to do with. Want an account blocked anywhere in the world, you just put in a request and they do it faster than you can say Osama bin Laden. None of that boring old stuff about proving reasonable suspicion.' Abbott leant closer into Matt's face. 'The accounts get frozen, and your bank won't even tell you. Right now, you haven't a penny in the world, old fruit.'

Matt moved back in his chair. Sweat was starting to form on the back of his neck. He'd faced many different types of danger in his life, and most of them he could meet with equanimity. But he'd been born poor, and like many people who started with nothing, he feared going back to the gutter.

I've done my time there, and I don't want to repeat it.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Like I said, there's a job that needs doing. You're the right man for it.'

Matt stood up. He walked across to the window. The rain had moved in further from the coast, and was spitting against the bar. Penelope and Suzie had grabbed their wine bottle and rushed inside. The few customers at the Last Trumpet were huddling for shelter around the bar.

'I've been broke before, and survived,' said Matt. 'Money comes and goes. I've made it before, and can make it again. Doesn't matter how many times you block my account, you can't make me do something I don't want to.'

'You're not thinking straight, Matt.' Abbott nodded towards the window. 'It's not just about some money in an account. With just one phone call I can have you charged with murder. Oh, and that pretty little fiancee of yours. Gill. I reckon she must be an accessory to murder as well. At least.'

Matt stepped forward, the veins in his face bulging. 'I risked my life for my country on that job,' he said, his voice low, determined. 'I should have got a bloody medal. But I just wanted to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life.'

Abbott nodded, a smile creasing up his lips. 'Should have asked for the medal, old fruit,' he replied. 'Medals we can do. Glory and honour? That can all be arranged. We might even run up a statue if you ask nicely enough. But leaving people alone?' He shook his head. 'No, we can't do that.'

A fresh cigarette jabbed into his mouth, Abbott moved towards the open door. He pulled the collar of his linen jacket up around his neck to protect him from the rain, then looked back at Matt. 'So here's the deal. You be a good boy and do what we ask you to do. Then we'll unfreeze your accounts, and we'll make sure you get a pardon for any connection you might have had with any unpleasantness. Then again, you can turn me down. You're a free man, and I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. But your money will remain frozen, you'll be a penniless bankrupt, and you and Gill will be charged with murder.' He stepped out into the rain. 'Think it over, and let me know tomorrow.'

Matt turned round, sitting back down at the desk. Taking the mouse in his right hand, he clicked open his account again. Still zero. He clicked on to the other accounts. Zero.