Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World Read Free

startled by the sudden appearance of Oscar Lupé.
    The man was embedded in the flight controls in front of them, a single clenching hand outstretched towards Roger.
    ‘Inside me,’ the soldier said, his voice cracking. ‘Feel it inside me.’
    ‘Jesus!’ screamed Roger. ‘Where the hell did he—’
    Which was all he managed before the Boeing 747 with its full complement of passengers went into free fall and such questions were pushed far away.

Two
    There are many pleasurable things a man can do in Nassau. A lot of them involve oil, sunshine and staring at beautiful people in swimwear. If the pleasure of the sands palls, there are restaurants, bars and a casino where the aforementioned beautiful people go to lose all their money in nice surroundings. One thing you will never find recommended is sitting in the back of a white van surrounded by enough electrical equipment to stock a small branch of Radio Shack. This is because vans, as large metal boxes, are extremely stupid things to sit in while the sun shines. The only people unfortunate enough to do it are pool-cleaning contractors and CIA operatives pretending to be pool-cleaning contractors.
    ‘What the hell have you been eating in here?’ Rex sniffed again, the need to pin down this odour going beyond self-preservation. ‘Boiled sneakers?’
    ‘I had a wrap earlier,’ Ted replied.
    ‘A wrap? What sort of wrap? Fried goat?’ Rex snorted deep. ‘I think I actually bruised my nose,it’ll bleed in a minute. Seriously, your smell is that bad.’
    ‘My smell? How do you know it’s me?’
    ‘Because I’m a civilised son of a bitch and I only just got here.’ Rex shook his head, ‘Unbelievable, like someone stood in a dead guy and tracked it in.’
    ‘I can’t smell anything.’
    ‘Burned out your glands. Probably never smell again.’
    ‘So let me get out, get some fresh air.’
    ‘OK, but you make it quick and keep out of sight. The Russians see a fat white boy in a cheap suit they’re going to know the CIA’s in town.’
    ‘Screw you.’
    Ted stepped outside, and Rex snatched at the brief guff of fresh air before the doors closed again.
    ‘Ambrosia,’ he said.
    He lifted the headphones and placed one ear to them. There was the second-hand sound of tinny gangsta rap. A weedy Russian voice attempting to sing along.
    ‘You’re so cool, Dmitri,’ said Rex. ‘If only your friends in St Petersburg could hear you now.’
    Dmitri Lakhonin’s ‘friends’ were the Ukrainian Boiko family, major players in the heroin trade. The CIA had decided to groom Lakhonin as a potential source of intelligence. Intelligence in the espionage sense, of course – you only had to hear him sing to realise the word wouldn’t be appropriate any other way.
    Rex wrapped the headphones around his neckand reached for a magazine Ted had discarded. He kept one ear on Dmitri as he flicked through its pages. There was nothing worth reading, movie stars and fashions. He peeled out a sample sachet of aftershave and slipped it into his pocket. He had established that Ted had no interest in improving body odour, so it would be a waste to leave it. There was the sound of knocking from the headphones, and Rex tipped his head slightly to listen. Dmitri switched off the music.
    ‘Who is it?’ he asked in highly accented English.
    ‘Room service,’ a voice replied, chuckling.
    Rex pulled the headphones on. Since when did room service find itself funny? He heard the sound of a semi-automatic being racked and guessed Dmitri was wondering the same thing. Either that or the turndown service put him on edge.
    The bedroom door opened, and Rex heard a Bahamian voice: ‘Here you are, my friend. I bring her safe and sound, yes? You got a nice tip for me?’
    Rex sighed. Looked like Dmitri had ordered up some company. If there was one thing worse than listening to the man’s singing… There was a rustle of paper as money was exchanged and the door closed.
    ‘Hey, honey,’ Dmitri said,