Killing for the Company by Chris Ryan Page B

individual like that was never made lightly – especially if the hit had to be carried out on home turf. Too many things could go wrong. Killing someone was easy; covering it up was more difficult. The conspiracy theorists loved the idea that the intelligence agencies would think nothing of assassinating suspected terrorists or troublesome members of the royal family, but that was bullshit.
    And in any case, the woman in his flat had not been British. As he drove, Chet desperately tried to place her accent. ‘ Harah! ’ she had said. Chet was a first-class Regiment linguist, and he thought the word seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
    It was just past midnight when he turned off Euston Road to drive down Gower Street and into the West End. He parked his car in the NCP on Wardour Street, hid his rucksack underneath the passenger seat and limped through the maze of red neon, pubs and sex shops. A woman, comfortably in her forties and with too much make-up on, called to him from a doorway. ‘Looking for a bit of business, love?’
    He put his head down.
    ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, darling!’ The woman’s voice had turned angry when she realised she was being ignored.
    Chet carried on towards Trafalgar Square, and from there to Whitehall. He walked down the opposite side to number 132 and stood for a moment observing the entrance. He didn’t really know what he was looking for – maybe an unmarked van parked suspiciously nearby; individuals carrying out surveillance in the street. He knew the signs to look for and right now he saw none of them, so he crossed the road and made his way into the building.
    The big, marble-floored atrium was entirely empty, with the exception of a solitary security guard on reception – different to the guy Chet had spoken to that morning. He had black skin and dreadlocks and was reading a copy of the Sun . He glanced up when Chet was a couple of metres from the reception.
    Chet smiled at him. ‘Graveyard shift, mate?’
    The guard put down his newspaper and Chet noticed that he’d been examining page 3. ‘You said it, brother,’ he sighed.
    Chet looked around, then leaned in a bit closer. ‘I wondered if you could help me out with something.’
    ‘Ain’t no one here this time of night,’ the guard replied. ‘Except me, of course.’ He prodded the newspaper. ‘And Delightful Debs from Dagenham.’ He laughed, and Chet joined in.
    ‘Not looking for someone here. I’m looking for someone who was here,’ said Chet. ‘A chick.’
    A broad grin crossed the guard’s face.
    ‘I did a little security job here this morning. The name’s Chet Freeman. Check your computer if you like.’
    The guard shrugged and tapped at the keyboard of his terminal. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment. ‘I got you.’
    ‘So I got talking to this girl. Said her name was Suze. Cleaning lady. Redhead. Kind of . . .’ Chet made a gesture with his hands to indicate a shapely figure. ‘Should have got her number there and then, I guess . . .’
    A troubled look came on to the guard’s face. ‘Ah, I don’t know, man. I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. You know, home addresses and shit.’
    ‘Hey, course not. I understand. I was just thinking, you know, maybe a phone number . . . if you had it . . .’
    He winked at the guard, who gave an amused shake of the head and replied, ‘I don’t know, brother. She must have been pretty cute for you to come chasing after her at this time of night.’
    ‘Yeah. Or maybe I’m just desperate.’
    The guard laughed, then once more tapped on his keyboard. ‘Suze McArthur?’ he asked.
    ‘That’s my girl.’
    ‘She’s a temp. Only worked here yesterday.’ The guard scrawled a number on a yellow Post-It note and handed it to Chet. ‘Hope you get yourself some pussy, brother.’
    Chet grinned. ‘You and me both, my friend.’
    He turned and walked out of the building, the square of paper clasped firmly in his right