Killing for the Company by Chris Ryan Page B

got an earful of static, which slowly morphed into something that sounded like several men talking underwater.
    ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ Chet said.
    ‘Keep listening.’
    More static. More noise.
    Then there was a word. Just a single word out of the meaningless burble.
    ‘ Baghdad. ’
    Chet strained to hear more, but the distortion had returned. It dissipated a few seconds later, however, and he was able to make out a second word.
    ‘ Military. ’
    Hold the fucking front page, Chet thought. So Stratton was discussing military action in Iraq. The guy probably didn’t talk about much else these days. The girl was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. Chet made to pull the earpiece away, but she grabbed his hand. ‘ Listen! You have to listen! ’
    Chet winced again as a burst of static exploded in his ear. But this time it was immediately followed by a few seconds of clarity.
    He heard the bald American, the guy from the Grosvenor Group. He sounded lazy and confident. ‘ Trust me, Prime Minister Stratton. This war is good to go . . . ’
    A couple of seconds of distortion, then the voice became clear again.
    ‘. . . the Americans are all on board . . . The question is, how are you going to get it through . . . ? ’
    The voices disintegrated once more into noise.
    Chet removed the earpiece. ‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘Now pack your bags. You’re coming with me.’
    The fear returned to the girl’s face. ‘No . . . You haven’t heard what I’ve heard . . . You can’t have . . .’
    ‘That’s enough.’ He grabbed her by the arm again.
    ‘I’ll tell them we’re working together,’ she gabbled. ‘When we spoke outside the meeting rooms, they’ll have that on CCTV.’ She looked at the listening device. ‘I’ll say you helped me get this . . .’
    Chet felt himself getting angry. She had a fucking screw loose. But his employers were paranoid – that was what kept him in a job. It wouldn’t take much for them to start having second thoughts about him.
    Fuck it.
    It only took one swipe of his arm for Chet to knock the girl’s listening equipment on to the hard concrete of the roof. It smashed as it fell, and she looked terrified. She got down on all fours and scrambled to eject a cassette from the recorder. ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ Chet hissed, and he pulled her away from the edge of the roof back towards the fire-escape stairs. She wriggled and writhed, her face a picture of dread, but there was no way she was going to get free from Chet’s grip. He pushed her on to the staircase first, then bore down on her so the only thing she could do was descend. As she went, she started begging again. ‘Please . . . you don’t understand . . . you’ve got to let me go . . .’ And when it was clear this wouldn’t work, she started up with the threats again. Chet just kept forcing her down.
    He knew, when they hit ground level, that she’d try to run, and he was ready for that. He grabbed her arm once more and for a moment they stared at each other, he with dislike, she with fear.
    Fuck it, thought Chet. Let her go. If she started putting ideas about him into people’s heads, he could kiss the Grosvenor Group job goodbye. He pointed to his left, the direction from which he’d come. ‘Stratton’s people are going to be looking for me,’ he said. ‘Go that way.’
    He released his grip and the girl jumped backwards like a frightened animal. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Chet didn’t reply. He watched her hurry away, then turned right and headed back round the corner of the building into Whitehall.
    Straight away he clocked Stratton’s muscle – two of them standing on the pavement, thick necked and slightly out of breath. They were looking around over the heads of the passers-by, searching for something. When they saw Chet, they bore down on him like a couple of fire and forget missiles.
    ‘All right, fellas?’ he murmured once they were standing on either side of him. Sweat