Free The Increment by Chris Ryan Page B

Matt. That's my job.
Up on the screen, Matt could see a large-scale photograph taken from the sky. It had been taken by a low-flying surveillance aircraft covering the territory at about 20,000 feet, he judged, working from the clarity of the picture. At this range, it showed a series of fields and some derelict buildings. Orlena gradually enlarged the photograph, sharpening its focus.
'This is the main factory,' said Orlena. 'It's about sixty kilometres north of Minsk, the capital of Belarus. The outside looks a mess, but the interior is in good working order. That's where the drugs are coming from. We need to get in, destroy it, then get out again.'
Lacrierre looked across at Matt. 'Money is no object,' he said. 'You can have whatever equipment you need. Just tell us what you want, and Orlena will make sure you have it.'
'How well defended is it?' asked Matt.
Orlena shrugged, her hair flicking away from her shoulders as she did so. 'We've identified this as the source of the drugs, but we haven't done detailed surveillance yet. They'll be armed, we can be sure of that. And they'll fight.' She paused, a smile suddenly creasing up her thick red lips. It was the first Matt had seen. 'But you're ex-SAS, right? You can handle anybody.'
Matt pushed back his chair, standing up. He could feel both sets of eyes following him as he walked close to the screen, looking up at the picture. They had money, nobody could deny that. To take pictures this clear from the air required expensive kit: it must be at least ten million pixels per inch on the camera to stand this kind of enlargement. Back in the regiment, you were lucky if the Ruperts nipped round to Waterstone's to buy you a map.
There were two main buildings to the complex, one of them probably a factory, the other probably a warehouse and offices. He could see the blurred outline of two trucks moving down the track towards the gate: their images on the screen were grainy and indistinct, but he could still make out the heavy grey canvas stretched across its roof.
'When was this taken?'
Orlena glanced back at her computer. 'Twelve days ago.'
'What time?'
'Just after five,' she replied carefully, her tone suggesting she was not sure he was meant to be asking so many questions. 'Five twelve, to be precise.'
Matt rested his thumb over the two trucks. 'This isn't carrying cargo, it's men,' he said flatly. 'It's a cargo truck, but they've put some canvas over the frame so guys can sit in the back. Five is close to dusk. I reckon they bring in reinforcements every night to guard the place.' He looked back towards Orlena and Lacrierre. 'This place is well defended,' he said. 'I'm going to need help.'
Lacrierre spread the palms of his hands out across the table. 'I've said, you can have whatever you want.'
'No, not money, a man,' said Matt. 'I'll do it because I have to, but let's do it right. If we're going to blow this place up, we'll need explosives expertise. I know a guy who can help us.'
Matt could see a frown starting to crinkle up the skin of Lacrierre's perfectly moistured and manicured skin. 'No,' he said quietly. 'You're the only Westerner we want on this assignment. Everyone else you can hire locally. Orlena will help you.'
'No help, no mission,' snapped Matt. He walked away from the screen, and stood a few feet from Lacrierre. 'I don't know how you run this business, but in my line, it doesn't matter what kind of kit you have or how much money you have to splash around, it's the quality of the men on the ground that counts. So, either I get my guy, or you can find someone else to burn up your pills.'
Matt paused, watching the cloud drift across Lacrierre's eyes, then slowly lift. From his time as a bodyguard right after he got out of the SAS, he knew what a strange, isolated world the men who ran big companies lived in. They were surrounded by small armies of flunkies, who spent their entire day agreeing with every crazy whim the boss came up with. They were worse than generals: