Killing for the Company

The woman standing at the window watched her two targets disappear. Her face was expressionless.

She turned away. Things had not gone well at all. She had killed the wrong man at the station that morning. That was a bad error, and as they had drummed into her during her training, one mistake invariably leads to another. A kitchen knife lay on the windowsill. Her fingers sought it out, almost of their own accord, and she gripped the handle. With a sudden burst of rage, she raised the knife in the air and drove the point down so heavily into the sill that the wood split. ‘ Ben zonah! ’

Her eyes flashed and it needed every ounce of self-control to stop the anger from once more bursting out of her. She took a couple of deep breaths and ran her hands through her hair.

Think, Maya, she told herself. You have to think.

She closed her eyes. She forced herself to become calm.

When she was a little girl, her parents had told her the story of Hansel and Gretel and how they were able to retrace their way through the forest because they had dropped little bits of bread behind them. It frequently struck her that most people dropped bits of bread behind them, even if they didn’t know they were doing it. If you wanted to find the person, all you had to do was follow the crumbs.

She looked around the flat. It was a tiny place — smaller even than her safe house in Tel Aviv — but that didn’t mean it held no secrets. She continued to breathe deeply so as to calm her temper, and started to search.

It took her seconds to spot the two box files marked ‘Stratton’ and ‘Grosvenor Group’. The image of the British Prime Minister rose in her mind, but she gave their contents only the most cursory of glances. That wasn’t the kind of thing she was after.

A photo on the TV showed a young woman and a disabled old lady. So different, yet somehow similar. Now that was a different matter. She ripped off the back of the frame, pocketed the print and continued her search.

She returned to the shelf where she had found the two files, but concentrated instead on the shelves below. There were a few books here, neatly lined up; a small mahogany box with some loose change inside; and on the bottom shelf what looked like a square briefcase with a lockable clasp. She pressed the clasp and it clicked open. Inside the briefcase were approximately ten green foolscap wallet folders, alphabetically arranged with neat, hand-written labels.

Banking. Insurance. Rent.

She ignored all these, and instead focused on a folder labelled ‘Mum’.

To find the person, all you had to do was follow the crumbs.

Smiling now, she opened up the folder and started to read.

‘How much money do you have?’

They were heading up Edgware Road.

‘None,’ Suze snapped, like a moody kid. ‘You made me leave the flat without getting anything, remember?’

Chet grunted. If she was after an apology for saving her life, she’d have a long wait.

‘Who the hell are you anyway?’ she demanded. Chet didn’t answer. He pulled out his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and threw it on to her lap.

‘How much is in there? Count it.’

Suze gave him a harsh look, but started to rummage through the wallet. ‘A hundred and sixty,’ she said finally.

Chet glanced at the fuel-level indicator. Half full. That was thirty quid gone before they’d even started. Not good.

‘We can’t use any credit cards,’ he said, more to himself than to his passenger.

Suze looked confused. ‘Why?’

Why? It was a good question, and now that they’d got safely away from her flat, it was one that was occupying every moment of Chet’s thoughts. The intruder had tracked the girl through the call he’d made to her. That wasn’t straightforward. It took time. Resources. Who was equipped to track phone calls at such speed? Five? The Firm? If so, they’d need to go through GCHQ, and that meant someone high up had given the order. That wasn’t a very comfortable thought. Someone wanted to find them. Really wanted to find them. Tracking their phone calls was just one way of doing that. Following a trail of credit-card payments was another. And there were more. Chet was going to have to make sure he was ahead of the game.

Suze was biting her fingernails. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Out of London.’

‘That doesn’t really narrow it down.’

‘I don’t know yet, all right? Just shut up and let me think.’

Suze looked like she was going to respond, but she thought better of it. Instead she sat in silence, looking out of the window, still gnawing at her thumbnail.

Chet made for the M1. The road was clear, but he kept a steady speed — to get pulled over now would be a really bad idea — and it was twenty minutes or so before they hit the junction with the M25. He took the clockwise carriageway and drove steadily round to just before the Dartford Tunnel, where he pulled off for petrol at Thurrock services. The service station was crowded and they had to queue for a pump. Only when they drew alongside one did Chet speak.

‘Keep the doors locked.’

‘Why? No one knows we’re here.’

‘Keep them locked.’