Ultimate Weapon Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Chris Ryan
leaving the flat he’d checked his kit into the B&B, then walked down to the local pub to get some food and a drink. He allowed himself one pint of lager and a double Irish whiskey to chase down the burger he ordered from the bar. The drink tasted good. Too good, he reminded himself as he finished the whiskey. Something is wrong, he kept telling himself. I know Sarah’s disappeared plenty of times, so maybe I shouldn’t worry,
but this just feels bloody crooked
.
‘Letter two and six from the password,’ said Sandrine, returning to the desk.
‘L and H,’ answered Nick.
He’d set up the joint account when Sarah started university. Her fees were paid for, but Nick hadn’t wanted her to take out a student loan to live on: he’d signed up for the army at eighteen, and the only loan he’d ever taken in his life was to start the ski school. He hadn’t needed to borrow money so he didn’t see why she should either. From his wages on the rigs, he paid a thousand every month into the account he’d opened in both their names, but it was her money: Nick never touched it. This month, he’d decided to check the account, just to see if it gave any clues as to where she might have got to. Most bank statements these days gave you the location of any cash machine you used. If she’d taken out any money in the past couple of days, he’d find out where she had gone drinking. Maybe even find her, and get her sobered up.
Sandrine looked down. Her expression changed subtly. Nick could hear a slight intake of breath, then a measure of curiosity as she looked back up at him. ‘You have a hundred thousand pounds, she said. ‘Plus seven hundred and thirty-two.’
Nick leant across at the neatly printed-out piece of paper on her desk. ‘There’s some mistake,’ he said.
‘Would you like me to check?’
He looked straight at her, and he could tell from her eyes that she was already suspicious. Men who look like me don’t usually have a hundred grand of loose changein their account, he thought.
And if they do, they certainly know where the hell it’s come from
.
‘Just give me a copy,’ snapped Nick.
He took the sheet of paper and walked swiftly away from the bank. As he hit the street, he turned left. He had no idea where he was going, or why. He just needed to feel the ground beneath his feet, and let the cold morning air fill his lungs. Anything to try and calm himself down.
A small thunderstorm of connections and conjectures had already exploded within his mind.
Sarah has disappeared.
There’s a hundred grand in the account.
Something has happened to her.
THREE
Jed looked around the apartment. There was a view out across the Thames, and in the distance he could just make out the top of Big Ben. The block was one of the modern apartment buildings that had sprung up on the south side of the river in the past few years: huge, luxury towers where the flats started at half a million, and the penthouses set you back three or four times that amount. The walls were painted off-white, and the furniture was minimal and modern, but there were two nineteenth-century oil paintings dominating the main walls. Both military pictures, Jed noticed. Scenes from the Battle of Waterloo, unless his history was rustier than he thought.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘Convenient for work anyway,’ answered Laura from the kitchen.
Jed poured himself a glass of Chablis from the bottle open on the dining table. A Diana Krall CD was playing on the hi-fi – the kind of sultry modern jazz that girls liked to go with their pasta, salad and white wine. It tasted cold and dry: Jed would have preferred a beer, but at least there was a kick to the alcohol. There weremoments, sitting in a place like this, when he wondered whether he’d made the right choices in life. Four years ago, he’d graduated from Cambridge with a 2:1 in engineering. With that qualification, he could have walked into a job in one of the City banks, and might well be
but this just feels bloody crooked
.
‘Letter two and six from the password,’ said Sandrine, returning to the desk.
‘L and H,’ answered Nick.
He’d set up the joint account when Sarah started university. Her fees were paid for, but Nick hadn’t wanted her to take out a student loan to live on: he’d signed up for the army at eighteen, and the only loan he’d ever taken in his life was to start the ski school. He hadn’t needed to borrow money so he didn’t see why she should either. From his wages on the rigs, he paid a thousand every month into the account he’d opened in both their names, but it was her money: Nick never touched it. This month, he’d decided to check the account, just to see if it gave any clues as to where she might have got to. Most bank statements these days gave you the location of any cash machine you used. If she’d taken out any money in the past couple of days, he’d find out where she had gone drinking. Maybe even find her, and get her sobered up.
Sandrine looked down. Her expression changed subtly. Nick could hear a slight intake of breath, then a measure of curiosity as she looked back up at him. ‘You have a hundred thousand pounds, she said. ‘Plus seven hundred and thirty-two.’
Nick leant across at the neatly printed-out piece of paper on her desk. ‘There’s some mistake,’ he said.
‘Would you like me to check?’
He looked straight at her, and he could tell from her eyes that she was already suspicious. Men who look like me don’t usually have a hundred grand of loose changein their account, he thought.
And if they do, they certainly know where the hell it’s come from
.
‘Just give me a copy,’ snapped Nick.
He took the sheet of paper and walked swiftly away from the bank. As he hit the street, he turned left. He had no idea where he was going, or why. He just needed to feel the ground beneath his feet, and let the cold morning air fill his lungs. Anything to try and calm himself down.
A small thunderstorm of connections and conjectures had already exploded within his mind.
Sarah has disappeared.
There’s a hundred grand in the account.
Something has happened to her.
THREE
Jed looked around the apartment. There was a view out across the Thames, and in the distance he could just make out the top of Big Ben. The block was one of the modern apartment buildings that had sprung up on the south side of the river in the past few years: huge, luxury towers where the flats started at half a million, and the penthouses set you back three or four times that amount. The walls were painted off-white, and the furniture was minimal and modern, but there were two nineteenth-century oil paintings dominating the main walls. Both military pictures, Jed noticed. Scenes from the Battle of Waterloo, unless his history was rustier than he thought.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘Convenient for work anyway,’ answered Laura from the kitchen.
Jed poured himself a glass of Chablis from the bottle open on the dining table. A Diana Krall CD was playing on the hi-fi – the kind of sultry modern jazz that girls liked to go with their pasta, salad and white wine. It tasted cold and dry: Jed would have preferred a beer, but at least there was a kick to the alcohol. There weremoments, sitting in a place like this, when he wondered whether he’d made the right choices in life. Four years ago, he’d graduated from Cambridge with a 2:1 in engineering. With that qualification, he could have walked into a job in one of the City banks, and might well be