worry and exhaustion.
Matt stepped towards the patio, leaning against the spare chair. 'I went to the hospital because I wanted to see him,' he said softly. 'When I got there, they told me he'd died. I'm sorry.'
He could dimly recollect their conversation three years ago. He hadn't known anyone at the christening, and, it turned out, neither did she, apart from her own family. Eleanor was very different from Ken, the way siblings sometimes are: Matt remembered being struck by that at the time. A lot more academic than her brother, she had gone down to London to study psychology at Imperial College. Last time he met her, she had been completing a doctorate in mental illness. Where Ken was naturally cheerful and outgoing, his sister had struck him as intense, relying only on herself. They weren't close, Ken had said to him back when they were spending long nights together on guard duty. She was five years younger than him, and she was moving up in her own very different world.
But whenever he spoke of her, there was a tenderness in his voice.
Eleanor smiled, and for a brief moment the clouds around her eyes started to part. 'It's come as such as shock to us,' she said. 'The last few days have just been hell.'
Barry put the cup of tea down in front of him, and Matt sipped it gratefully, glad to have something to do with his hands. 'What happened to Ken?' said Matt. 'I just can't understand it.'
Eleanor looked up at him sharply. 'You mean the shootings. Or why Ken died?'
'Both.'
'Right now, I really can't imagine,' said Eleanor. She spoke quietly, but Matt could detect the steel in her voice. 'But I'm planning to find out.'
David Luttrell was shorter than Matt had expected. Only one official picture of the head of the Firm had been published in the papers, when he had been appointed to the post two years ago, and that suggested a man of at least six foot or more. In the flesh, Matt judged he was no more than five five, with a slim, wiry frame, and sleek grey hair that was combed away from the sharp, tanned contours of his face.
'Good to meet you, Mr Browning,' he said, looking up from the laptop on his desk. 'Do take a seat.'
The building was protected by a thick set of steel doors, for which Abbott needed three separate passwords to gain access. The room was pleasantly air conditioned, a rarity in a London town house. The Firm's main headquarters was a big modern building on the south side of Vauxhall Bridge. But a year ago, its most senior officials had decamped to a modest-looking Victorian house just across the river in Pimlico. The headquarters was too well known, and too vulnerable to a terrorist attack. A September 11-style attacker could almost certainly crash one of his jets into that building, and no one wanted to have to give the order to shoot down a passenger plane over central London. A determined terrorist could even shoot a missile into it from the river as the PIRA had tried to a few years earlier.
'I've looked at your file, and I'm impressed,' said Luttrell.
He stood up from his desk, and poured three glasses of iced still mineral water from the counter, handing one to both Matt and Abbott.
'You know a man called Ivan Rowe, don't you?'
Ivan, thought Matt. The ex-PIRA bomb-maker who'd saved his life on the last mission. 'Yes,' he answered cautiously.
'Interesting fellow,' said Luttrell. 'Ever played him at bridge?'
Matt shook his head. 'No, not my game,' he answered. 'You?'
Luttrell laughed. 'Ivan was far too good a player for me. I sat in on a rubber or two with him once. Impressive. He was always several tricks ahead of the game.' Luttrell looked back down at the file on his desk. 'Ten years in the SAS, a Military Cross, recommendations for promotion,' he continued. 'You were a model soldier. You should be working for us, not running a bar out in Marbella.'
'I like the sunshine,' answered Matt crisply.
'I'd have thought you'd have seen enough of it by now.' Luttrell sat down. 'Abbott has a job for you, and
Matt stepped towards the patio, leaning against the spare chair. 'I went to the hospital because I wanted to see him,' he said softly. 'When I got there, they told me he'd died. I'm sorry.'
He could dimly recollect their conversation three years ago. He hadn't known anyone at the christening, and, it turned out, neither did she, apart from her own family. Eleanor was very different from Ken, the way siblings sometimes are: Matt remembered being struck by that at the time. A lot more academic than her brother, she had gone down to London to study psychology at Imperial College. Last time he met her, she had been completing a doctorate in mental illness. Where Ken was naturally cheerful and outgoing, his sister had struck him as intense, relying only on herself. They weren't close, Ken had said to him back when they were spending long nights together on guard duty. She was five years younger than him, and she was moving up in her own very different world.
But whenever he spoke of her, there was a tenderness in his voice.
Eleanor smiled, and for a brief moment the clouds around her eyes started to part. 'It's come as such as shock to us,' she said. 'The last few days have just been hell.'
Barry put the cup of tea down in front of him, and Matt sipped it gratefully, glad to have something to do with his hands. 'What happened to Ken?' said Matt. 'I just can't understand it.'
Eleanor looked up at him sharply. 'You mean the shootings. Or why Ken died?'
'Both.'
'Right now, I really can't imagine,' said Eleanor. She spoke quietly, but Matt could detect the steel in her voice. 'But I'm planning to find out.'
David Luttrell was shorter than Matt had expected. Only one official picture of the head of the Firm had been published in the papers, when he had been appointed to the post two years ago, and that suggested a man of at least six foot or more. In the flesh, Matt judged he was no more than five five, with a slim, wiry frame, and sleek grey hair that was combed away from the sharp, tanned contours of his face.
'Good to meet you, Mr Browning,' he said, looking up from the laptop on his desk. 'Do take a seat.'
The building was protected by a thick set of steel doors, for which Abbott needed three separate passwords to gain access. The room was pleasantly air conditioned, a rarity in a London town house. The Firm's main headquarters was a big modern building on the south side of Vauxhall Bridge. But a year ago, its most senior officials had decamped to a modest-looking Victorian house just across the river in Pimlico. The headquarters was too well known, and too vulnerable to a terrorist attack. A September 11-style attacker could almost certainly crash one of his jets into that building, and no one wanted to have to give the order to shoot down a passenger plane over central London. A determined terrorist could even shoot a missile into it from the river as the PIRA had tried to a few years earlier.
'I've looked at your file, and I'm impressed,' said Luttrell.
He stood up from his desk, and poured three glasses of iced still mineral water from the counter, handing one to both Matt and Abbott.
'You know a man called Ivan Rowe, don't you?'
Ivan, thought Matt. The ex-PIRA bomb-maker who'd saved his life on the last mission. 'Yes,' he answered cautiously.
'Interesting fellow,' said Luttrell. 'Ever played him at bridge?'
Matt shook his head. 'No, not my game,' he answered. 'You?'
Luttrell laughed. 'Ivan was far too good a player for me. I sat in on a rubber or two with him once. Impressive. He was always several tricks ahead of the game.' Luttrell looked back down at the file on his desk. 'Ten years in the SAS, a Military Cross, recommendations for promotion,' he continued. 'You were a model soldier. You should be working for us, not running a bar out in Marbella.'
'I like the sunshine,' answered Matt crisply.
'I'd have thought you'd have seen enough of it by now.' Luttrell sat down. 'Abbott has a job for you, and
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