The Increment by Chris Ryan Page A

chess.'
'People think chess is a Russian game,' said Orlena. 'They're wrong. It's a Ukrainian game. All the best players are Ukrainian.' They stepped out into the street. It had just got dark, and only a few cars were making their way down the street: cheap twelve-year-old VWs and Toyotas mostly, broken up with the occasional gleaming new Mercedes.
'Bridge is a far superior game to chess, naturally,' said Ivan. 'People think of chess as an intellectual sport. They're wrong. You need to be good at maths, and have a lot of processing power, but that's about it. Not much in the way of guile, or cunning, or assessing your opponent. No emotional intelligence. That's why computers are good at chess.'
'Bridge?' snorted Orlena. 'A game for grannies. And for a few greasy Arabs.' She started walking more quickly down the street. 'Chess is the greatest intellectual pursuit man has ever devised. What was it Pascal once said? "Chess is the gymnasium of the mind." '
'No, no,' said Ivan, laughing. 'Chess is just chequers, with better PR. The only really great mind in chess was the 1920s world champion José Raúl Capablanca. "In order to improve your game, you must study the endgame." That was his great saying.' He turned towards Matt, his tone turning sly. 'Study the endgame. Good advice, don't you think?'
'Are we ever going to get a drink?' asked Matt.
Orlena looked at him. 'First we settle the argument, then we drink.'
Great, thought Matt. Stuck with a chess fanatic and a bridge fanatic. And Ivan seems to be getting pretty close to Orlena – too close, maybe, despite his misgivings. Looks like a fun time ahead.

Matram looked down at the body. Ben Weston was curled up like a baby, with his arms neatly folded around his chest, and his feet tucked up to his body. A thin line of blood stretched down from the incision cut carefully into his throat, but a scarf had been tightly tied around his neck to staunch the bleeding as much as possible, and his eyes had been closed. He looked at rest.
'A good kill,' he said, looking up towards Turnton and Snaddon.
Both soldiers remained silent. Matram always taught his assassins to say as little as possible, but he could see from their faces they were pleased with the compliment. He drove the Increment hard, and never hesitated to hand out punishments: always when they were merited, sometimes when they weren't, just to remind everyone who was the boss. Every man and woman in the unit had felt the force of his fist against their skin at some point during their tour of duty. Each of them had been threatened with a dishonourable discharge from the regiment. He had told them he would break their careers. But, when it was deserved, he liked to congratulate them on a job well done.
Soldiers are like dogs, Matram sometimes reflected. You have to punish them hard, but it doesn't hurt to praise them occasionally as well. The tougher the punishment, the more they appreciate the praise.
He reached down, holding the wrist of the corpse, just to make sure there was no pulse there. Then he shut the boot of the car. 'Packington landfill site, in Warwickshire, just south of Birmingham,' he said. 'You are to take the body there, and dump it.' He handed them two sheets of paper. 'These are Department of Environment passes. They get you through the guards at the site. They'll think you're there to check for methane emissions. They'll keep out of your way, and you just need to go down to the main dump and chuck the body in.'
Turnton and Snaddon took the passes, tucking them into their jacket pockets.
'Packington is the biggest landfill site in Europe,' continued Matram. 'Nobody will ever find a body there.'
'Who's next?' asked Turnton.
'Something more challenging, maybe?' said Snaddon, her hard green eyes shining brightly. 'These kills are practically civilians. There's nothing to get our teeth into.'
'Don't worry,' said Matram softly. 'I'll have some harder game for you to track down in the next few days.'

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