Ultimate Weapon (3 page)

‘What did the building look like?’ pressed Wragg.

‘Nothing special,’ answered Jed. ‘A carpet factory. Could be making rugs from the looks of the place.’

‘And special defences?’

‘Just a high perimeter fence, and thick steel gates.’

‘No guards?’

Jed shook his head. ‘Only on the inside.’

‘Searchlights?’ asked Laura.

‘Two on either side of the compound,’ said Jed. ‘But fixed. They weren’t scanning the area. They might have been built to, but they weren’t that night.’

‘Electronic surveillance?’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘What did it smell like?’ said Weston.

Jed paused. That was a good question. It smelt like fear, if he was being honest. His own terror sweating
off him as he stood next to the plant, wondering if he was about to spend the next few months being tortured to death by the Iraqis. ‘Just dust, really,’ he replied. ‘Concrete, tarmac. Tossed-out rubbish and dog piss. The same sort of smell you might get on any industrial estate in this country on a hot day.’

‘No fruity smells?’ said Weston.

‘Like what?’

‘Burnt almonds, dried oranges, anything like that,’ said Weston. ‘Just any kind of memorable smell.’

Jed shook his head. Weston was a short, plump man, with a greying beard that looked like it could use a trim. He’d be more at home at a real-ale convention than the offices of the Firm. Still, he knew more about chemical and biological weapons than any man in the country. If it could come out of a test tube and kill you, then Weston was the man to spot it.

‘Nothing like that.’

‘How about lights?’ said Miles Frith. ‘What kind of light was it giving off ?’

‘It was dark.’

‘I know,’ said Frith. ‘But any kind of glow.’

Jed shook his head.

‘Pipes?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Any kind of thick pipe running into the place?’ Frith was younger than the other men, no more than thirty, Jed thought. He wore half-moon glasses that made him look older, and a short-sleeved blue shirt. His voice was thin and whiny, like a cat being prodded with a hot
stick, but his manner was firm and decisive. Weston took him along to every meeting he attended, but no one else could understand why he was there.

Jed closed his eyes. In his mind, he recalled images of the pictures he’d taken. He’d looked at the building for hours, committing it to his memory, the way a photograph is committed to a roll of film. He could see the drab concrete wall that surrounded the place, and the cylinders poking above them. And then to the right he could see a pipe.

‘On the right of the plant,’ he replied.

‘How thick?’

‘Maybe a foot in diameter.’

‘Oil?’

Jed shook his head. Oil pipes usually came in a standard size, and they were smaller than that. And industrial plants didn’t need raw crude. ‘Water,’ he said. ‘I think it was a water pipe.’

‘Just into the plant.’

Jed nodded. ‘There were no pipes running off it, so yes. The plant must have had its own water supply.’

Weston looked suddenly interested. ‘What about the road leading into the place? Was it reinforced in any way?’

Jed nodded again. ‘There was thick tarmac on the road leading up into it. A lot thicker than any of the surrounding roads.’

Weston looked up at the picture Jed had taken of the building. He was scrutinising it, the way an angler would scrutinise the fish on the end of his rod, looking at it
from every angle to judge whether he’d landed a prize catch. From the look on his face, Jed judged this one wasn’t about to be tossed back into the water.

‘So what have we got here, ladies?’ snapped Muir. ‘I can’t piss around all day talking to you fucking pansy boys. Is it WMD or not? Have we got the evidence?’

Weston stood up. After a brief moment of hesitation, Frith stood up as well. ‘What we are looking at here, I believe, is not WMD. At least not in the conventional sense.’ He turned and walked out of the room. Frith followed, shutting the door softly behind him.

‘I think that brings the meeting to a close,’ said Wragg quickly. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

Muir snorted, collecting his pad from the desk. ‘Next time, try to get us the come shot, boy,’ he said, looking menacingly across at Jed. ‘Missiles, that’s what we want. Vats of fucking rat poison, marked “For Delivery to London”. Not this overgrown Meccano bollocks.’

He leant over, so that Jed could smell the stale after-shave on his skin. ‘And you should shave that stupid beard off, sonny,’ he sneered. ‘You look like a bloody tramp.’

Jed was about to speak, but once again he could feel Laura’s hand on his wrist, restraining him. There was something about the touch of her skin on his that he liked: smooth, reassuring and firm. The words stalled in his throat. Just as well, he reflected, as he stood up and started to walk across the room. Even a couple of years in a social services care home, then a couple more as a squaddie, didn’t prepare you for a swearing contest with that tosser.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ said Jed, turning round to look at Laura as they left the room.

They were standing in the corridor on the second floor of the Firm’s headquarters. A couple of men scurried past, holding bottles of mineral water and thick-looking bundles of paper. Jed could feel the tension in the air: it was the same mixture of anticipation, tension and excitement you got at the Regiment the night before a big scrap was about to blow up.

Laura looked at him, a dazzling smile suddenly flashing across her full red lips. Her left hand reached up to play with the single pearl earring.

‘That was something that could make my career,’ she replied.

Nick Scott glanced left and right as he walked through the green channel on his way out of Heathrow Terminal 3. A couple of customs officers looked at him, and Nick could tell they were weighing up the hassle of stopping and searching him. A tall, tanned man, with weather-beaten skin and a black rucksack slung over his shoulder, recently arrived from North Africa, I probably fit all the profiles for a search, he thought. But it’s almost lunchtime.
They can’t be arsed
.

His flight from Algeria had touched down an hour earlier, but it had taken almost forty minutes for the baggage to turn up on the carousel. It was already ten past one. Nick walked across the crowded terminal, sat down at the coffee bar, and ordered himself a tall latte and a cheese-and-ham sandwich. He stared into the busy mass of people, already wondering how he was going to fill the rest of the month until his next shift on the rigs started up again.
I get back to Britain every other month, with my salary – about eight grand – sitting in my bank account, and I still don’t know what the hell to do with myself
.

He fished his Nokia from his pocket, and glanced at the screen. No messages. No texts.
Nothing
.

He took a bite on the sandwich, relieved to have some decent food again. For the last five years, he’d been working as a security consultant on the oil rigs off the Algerian coast. Four weeks on, then four weeks off, with your flights and all your meals paid for. It was OK work for a man who had just turned fifty, and he knew he was lucky to have it: there were plenty of former Regiment blokes having to run much greater risks for a lot less money. He liked the sea, and the shifting crew of Egyptians, Moroccans, Somalis and Algerians who manned the rigs made OK company so long as you didn’t mind the constant smoking, the smell of couscous, or their insatiable demand for porno DVDs featuring German blondes. Being at sea meant you couldn’t spend any cash, and it kept you away from the bottle: most of the rig workers were Muslims and didn’t drink. But it was hot, dull work, and by the last week of every tour, he was just counting the days until he could get back to Britain again.

Until he could see Sarah.

Every man needs something to live for, he’d reflected as the plane had touched down on the runway. Something to pull him through the days. A wife. A job. A dream. For me it’s my daughter.
The only thing I ever got right
.

He glanced at the Nokia again. He’d sent her a text yesterday afternoon, but they often took a long time to get through – the Algerian landlines hardly worked at all, and the mobiles weren’t much better. Still, the routine was well established. Every time he got back from the
rigs, usually with a few grand in his pocket, he’d get the train straight up to Cambridge to see her. They’d go out and have dinner, and share a bottle of wine or two. These days, Nick only allowed himself a drink every couple of months. Any more than that, he knew he’d be in trouble again.
And then who would look after Sarah?

The screen was blank.

Funny, thought Nick.

Like most twenty-somethings, Sarah was a text addict. Send her a message, and you’d usually get a reply within minutes. He jabbed at the tiny keyboard, and double-checked the inbox. Nothing. Next he looked up ‘Missed Calls’. Nothing.
Christ, I’m a miserable bastard. A month out of the country, and in all that time I haven’t had a single call
.

There were only three numbers stored on the phone. His own, the company that supplied the muscle to the rigs and Sarah’s. He flicked on to Sarah’s number, then pressed the green dial button. It was picked up immediately. ‘Hi, this is Sarah,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I can’t take the call right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

‘It’s Dad,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m at Heathrow. Give me a ring when you get the message.’

Nick folded the phone back into his pocket. He took another bite of the sandwich, but his appetite seemed to have deserted him. Slinging his rucksack over his back, he started walking towards the tube. He stopped to buy a paper, glancing down at the headline as he queued to pay.
WAR WITH IRAQ DRAWS CLOSER
ran the
headline. Nick put the paper back, and grabbed one of the motoring magazines instead. They can go to bloody war with the Iraqis again, if they want to, he thought. But I don’t want any part of it.
Don’t even want to read about it in the paper
.

The Heathrow Express into central London took just fifteen minutes. Along the way, Nick had some time to think. Sarah had been living in Cambridge for six years now. After Mary died, he’d fallen apart faster than a self-assembly bookshelf. The drink had turned him into a shambles. The ski school had only lasted another few months before they ran out of money: nobody wanted an instructor who swayed down the side of the mountain reeking of bourbon and gin. Back home in Hereford, there had been no work, and no prospects. It was a miracle Sarah managed to look after herself, but after one of her teachers became suspicious, and called in the social services, she was taken into care for a while. After three weeks of heavy drinking, Nick had realised that unless he straightened up his life, he was never going to get his daughter back. Get close to them when they’re young, he could remember someone once telling him. That’s the only time they really need you.

Social services returned her after six months, and Nick had straightened himself out. He got a job, first bodyguarding, then on the rigs. They muddled through, although the damage was plain to see. Sarah was always brilliant academically – top As at schools, then a first in natural sciences at Cambridge – but emotionally she
was wild. As a teenager, she disappeared on weekend raves. Nick was certain she slept with too many boys, and took too many drugs, but she’d never talk to him about it. When she got home, she’d always go straight back to her studies. Intense work, followed by intense R&R, Nick sometimes reflected.
She’d have fitted right into the Regiment
.

He climbed down on to the platform at Paddington Station. As he stood next to the train, he checked his mobile again. Nothing. He pressed dial on the phone. ‘Hi, this is Sarah,’ repeated the familiar voice. ‘I can’t take the call right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

Where has she got to, he wondered.

Nick looked at all the people bustling through the station. Places to go to, he reflected. Offices and homes waiting for them. The only appointment I’ve got is a plane back to Algeria in a month’s time. He shifted his rucksack on his back and started walking towards the Bakerloo Line. He could take that to Oxford Circus, switch on to the Central, then get a train to Cambridge from Liverpool Street. A poster for the
Evening Standard
caught his eyes.
SADDAM’S MISSILES
45
MINUTES FROM LONDON,
it said in thick black letters. Bollocks, thought Nick. I’ve been there. It takes those jokers forty-five minutes to tie their shoelaces in the morning.

With his rucksack still over his shoulder, Nick pushed his way through the barrier, and down on to the platform. Sarah’s bound to turn up soon, he decided. When
she does, I’ll be waiting for her. Go out and have some good food. And a drink.

Lana was wearing just a simple white T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans when she opened the door. Her blonde hair was tied up behind her head. Nick had met her several times before: she’d been sharing a flat with Sarah for the past three years while they both completed their doctorates. She treated him with the polite indifference that the young have for their friends’ parents. Nick had got used to it as soon as Sarah hit her teens. You were just part of the grey mass of boring old people in the background.