Ultimate Weapon Read Free Page B

sense.’ He turned and walked out of the room. Frith followed, shutting the door softly behind him.
    ‘I think that brings the meeting to a close,’ said Wragg quickly. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
    Muir snorted, collecting his pad from the desk. ‘Next time, try to get us the come shot, boy,’ he said, looking menacingly across at Jed. ‘Missiles, that’s what we want. Vats of fucking rat poison, marked “For Delivery to London”. Not this overgrown Meccano bollocks.’
    He leant over, so that Jed could smell the stale after-shave on his skin. ‘And you should shave that stupid beard off, sonny,’ he sneered. ‘You look like a bloody tramp.’
    Jed was about to speak, but once again he could feel Laura’s hand on his wrist, restraining him. There was something about the touch of her skin on his that he liked: smooth, reassuring and firm. The words stalled in his throat. Just as well, he reflected, as he stood up and started to walk across the room. Even a couple of years in a social services care home, then a couple more as a squaddie, didn’t prepare you for a swearing contest with that tosser.
    ‘What the hell was that all about?’ said Jed, turning round to look at Laura as they left the room.
    They were standing in the corridor on the second floor of the Firm’s headquarters. A couple of men scurried past, holding bottles of mineral water and thick-looking bundles of paper. Jed could feel the tension in the air: it was the same mixture of anticipation, tension and excitement you got at the Regiment the night before a big scrap was about to blow up.
    Laura looked at him, a dazzling smile suddenly flashing across her full red lips. Her left hand reached up to play with the single pearl earring.
    ‘That was something that could make my career,’ she replied.

TWO

    Nick Scott glanced left and right as he walked through the green channel on his way out of Heathrow Terminal 3. A couple of customs officers looked at him, and Nick could tell they were weighing up the hassle of stopping and searching him. A tall, tanned man, with weather-beaten skin and a black rucksack slung over his shoulder, recently arrived from North Africa, I probably fit all the profiles for a search, he thought. But it’s almost lunchtime.
They can’t be arsed
.
    His flight from Algeria had touched down an hour earlier, but it had taken almost forty minutes for the baggage to turn up on the carousel. It was already ten past one. Nick walked across the crowded terminal, sat down at the coffee bar, and ordered himself a tall latte and a cheese-and-ham sandwich. He stared into the busy mass of people, already wondering how he was going to fill the rest of the month until his next shift on the rigs started up again.
I get back to Britain every other month, with my salary – about eight grand – sitting in my bank account, and I still don’t know what the hell to do with myself
.
    He fished his Nokia from his pocket, and glanced at the screen. No messages. No texts.
Nothing
.
    He took a bite on the sandwich, relieved to have some decent food again. For the last five years, he’d been working as a security consultant on the oil rigs off the Algerian coast. Four weeks on, then four weeks off, with your flights and all your meals paid for. It was OK work for a man who had just turned fifty, and he knew he was lucky to have it: there were plenty of former Regiment blokes having to run much greater risks for a lot less money. He liked the sea, and the shifting crew of Egyptians, Moroccans, Somalis and Algerians who manned the rigs made OK company so long as you didn’t mind the constant smoking, the smell of couscous, or their insatiable demand for porno DVDs featuring German blondes. Being at sea meant you couldn’t spend any cash, and it kept you away from the bottle: most of the rig workers were Muslims and didn’t drink. But it was hot, dull work, and by the last week of every tour, he was just counting the days until he could get