ELEVEN

THE CLOUDS HAD cleared, revealing a sky of bright stars whose light settled on the pure sand and the dark blue water. Matt paced along the shoreline, the waves lapping at his feet. There could be few better spots, he reflected, in which to collect your fortune. It reminded him of how much he loved the Mediterranean.

Wherever Gill and I decide to make our home, it will be somewhere looking over this sea. The water is in my veins.

‘That’s it!’ said Reid at his side.

Matt followed the line of Reid’s finger, pointing out to sea. The cargo ship was steaming slowly into the bay. ‘Get the dinghy and trucks ready,’ he said.

Matt felt tired but invigorated. After the last night the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins. Damien had fished them all out of the water and they had loaded the crates on to their own boat. They had waited for an hour, watching as the last remnants of the al-Qaeda ship disappeared beneath the waves. They wanted to make sure it was safely at the bottom of the sea, since a floating wreck would be discovered within a few hours. Then they sailed back to Cyprus, cleaning themselves up on the boat. Damien laid anchor a kilometre from the coast, while the rest of them went ashore in the dinghy. The plan had been for Damien to stay with the loot overnight: it would be safer to keep it at sea than on dry land. He would meet them at the bay at two o’clock the following night to transfer the crates into the Land Rovers and then on to the cargo boat bound for Rotterdam.

Reid had insisted on staying with Damien – both he and Cooksley were suspicious about letting the money out of their sight, and wanted at least one of them to stay on the boat. Matt had to work hard to make sure Ivan didn’t stay as well: it might create suspicions, he told them, if none of them made it back to the hotel.

The team finally stumbled back into the hotel at five in the morning, exhausted but in high spirits. As far as the receptionist was concerned, it was just a stag party returning after an all-night bender. They went to their rooms, but it took Matt a couple of hours before he could get off to sleep. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind: how quickly can we get the money, how soon can I pay off my debts, how long before I see Gill again?

All of them woke late, and spent the day lounging around the pool. The team now looked tired and haggard; none of them had slept for more than a couple of hours. But they were also happy and relaxed, noticed Matt. They were all coming together. There was, he decided, nothing like the combination of danger and success to create camaraderie between men.

And now, here’s the pay-off.

The ship was within sight. Damien was at anchor two hundred metres from the shore, with Reid at his side. Matt pushed out the dinghy to meet him, Cooksley and Ivan remaining on the secluded beach preparing the two Land Rovers. The dinghy bounced through the waves and pulled up alongside. Matt cast up a rope for Damien to catch and clambered up on to the ship.

‘We’ve made it,’ he said, thumping Damien on the back.

‘Well, Reid and I thought about turning around and sailing straight for Argentina,’ said Damien. ‘But then I thought – nah, I’d miss Camberwell.’

Matt laughed. ‘And we’d have to track you down and kill you as well.’

‘I believe you would too,’ grinned Damien.

The work was slow and hot, but none of them minded. Their spirits were high. Each crate had to be loaded on to the dinghy and steered back to shore. That took three trips. Then they opened up each case, wrapped the trays of diamonds and the bars of gold in tissue paper, and stowed them away inside the hulls of the Land Rovers. Both cars were already loaded on to the back of a truck, their engines removed, ready to be taken down to the docks. They had been parked behind a high sandbank to keep them out of sight of any passing traffic. There was not much chance of anyone seeing them: the beach was at the end of a dirt road leading nowhere, and Ivan had cased the location two mornings running to be sure it had no visitors.

Unpacking the crates and transferring the gear, Reid and Cooksley struck up a chorus of the Good Ship Venus: ‘We sailed to the Canaries, to screw the local fairies, we got the syph in Tenerife and the clap in Buenos Aires,’ they sang in a deep, rolling baritone. By the next verse, Matt, Ivan and Damien had all joined in: ‘We sailed to the Bahamas, where the girls all wear pyjamas, they wouldn’t screw our motley crew, they much preferred bananas.’

The song completed, all five men stood around laughing. Matt put the last of the gold bars into the Land Rover, then stood back from the truck. ‘There’s one more thing I want to do,’ he said.

In his hand, Matt held one tray with six diamonds in it. He took them out one by one, holding them in his hand, admiring the way they caught and reflected the light from the stars, then handed one to each man. ‘Let’s keep one of these each as a souvenir,’ he said. ‘Give them to our wives or girlfriends.’

‘You could give one to that cute waiter in the hotel,’ said Reid.

‘That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble,’ Damien said.

They all took one diamond, slipping them into their pockets. ‘One left,’ said Cooksley.

‘Why don’t we give it to that barmaid at the hotel,’ said Reid, laughing. ‘I reckon she’d shag all five of us for one of these sparklers.’

‘Or Alison,’ said Ivan. ‘She gave us this job. I reckon one of these would look good around her neck.’

‘Alison, yes,’ said Matt. ‘Let’s keep one for her.’

Matt turned the diamond over between his fingers, letting the sunshine from the window catch its light. ‘Alison?’ he said into the phone.

‘Matt,’ she answered quickly. ‘You OK?’

‘Never better,’ he answered. ‘The mission went like clockwork.’

‘Good work, Matt. When are you coming back?’

Matt hesitated before answering. ‘It will be a few days before we can get the goods fenced. We’ll be in Rotterdam, then back in London.’

‘I’ll plan a celebration,’ said Alison. ‘Maybe even cook you something.’

Matt put down the phone and walked back into the sunshine. There was easiness to his mood he hadn’t known for months. A burden had been lifted from his shoulders – the burden of debt and failure. He could walk more freely now.

At a table next to the pool, the rest of the gang were collecting bottles of Keo, the local Cypriot beer. It wasn’t the best Matt had ever tasted; nothing could beat the Filipino San Miguel he’d sampled when he’d spent two months fighting some communist insurgents in that country. But when the sun was shining and you were about to fold two million into your pocket, all the beer tasted sweet and all the girls looked good. Or was that the other way around?

He collected a round from the bar and slammed the bottles down on the table. ‘Get these down your necks, boys,’ he said.

‘You’re paying for a round, Matt,’ laughed Damien. ‘Now we know you’ve made a lot of money.’

Ivan was shuffling a deck of cards, but Reid had already told him to forget it. They had better things to do than sit around playing games. Such as, Ivan had asked quizzically?

‘Drink beer, and work on my tan.’

‘And you?’ Matt looked across at Ivan. ‘What do you think you might do when we collect the money?’

‘I suspect I’m going to suffer from too many choices,’ answered Ivan, putting his cards down on the table. ‘I must become a different man, yet I will still be who I am, with the same wife, and the same children.’

‘Translate that into English for us,’ said Reid

‘I can go anywhere, and be anyone,’ said Ivan. ‘So I reckon I’ll go to Boston, somewhere around there. There’s a good Irish community, the air is clean, and it’s not too hot. But I don’t know. I might feel differently tomorrow. How about you?’

‘Use the money to make more money, that’s my plan,’ said Reid. ‘I’m through with working for other people. Building, that’s what I want to do. Buy some land with planning permission, put up some new houses, sell them on. Try some barn conversions as well. There’s always money in that game. You just need some capital to get started. Well, now I’ve got it.’

‘And what about you?’ Ivan said, looking towards Cooksley.

‘California,’ he replied. ‘That’s where Jane and I are going for a year. The kids are getting booked in for gene therapy. We’ll spend the next year with them, doing everything we can to make sure they pull through.’

‘And when they recover?’ said Matt. ‘What then?’

‘I can’t even think about that, Matt. Until I know whether the children are going to be OK, I can’t focus on anything else.’ He paused, sipping on his beer, lost in his own thoughts. ‘And how about you, Damien. What’s your plan?’

‘I’m with Reid,’ Damien answered. ‘Money is for building, not spending. Sure, I’ll spend a bit, but the rest I’m going to invest. The gangs in London are wide open right now. There’s an opportunity for one man to take charge, impose his will, bring some order to the city. With the right amount of capital, that could be me.’

‘The Godfather, right?’ said Ivan gently.

Damien swigged back the remains of his beer and reached for another bottle. ‘Somebody get me a horse and a large carving knife.’

‘And you, Matt?’ said Ivan. ‘You’ve brought us all together here. What happens to your two million?’

Matt glanced towards Damien. ‘I get married, that’s what,’ he said firmly. ‘A new Porsche, my own yacht, a gorgeous babe hanging off my arm, and nothing to do all day but run and drink beer, and I’m happy.’

‘We risk our lives to make all this money,’ Ivan said, ‘and when we get it, we do things we could have done with much less.’

‘You’re saying we don’t need the money?’ said Cooksley.

Ivan shook his head. ‘I’m just saying maybe it’s the pursuit we enjoy, not the possession of it.’

The night was drawing in, and the moon was already rising over the bay. Matt had just completed a five-mile run along the beach, picking his way through the tourists and the volleyball players, and the blood was pumping through his veins. He felt refreshed and relaxed. He had thought about it during the run, and his mind was made up. It was time to make the call.

He finished his shower, dried himself off, then picked up the hotel phone. It sat in his hand, a small, inert lump of plastic and copper wire. He put it down, walked once around the room, paused to look at the sun setting on the horizon, then picked the phone up again.

Christ, Matt. You killed at least two men last night. I can’t believe you are frightened of calling a girl.

‘Gill,’ he said into the receiver as she picked up the phone. ‘Is that you?’

There was a pause on the line. He could hear her breath, and he could imagine her expression, yet for several seconds she remained silent. ‘Matt Browning,’ she said eventually. ‘The man who is too frightened to go through with his own wedding.’

The words stung more than Matt had imagined they would. He’d always known this was going to be a tough conversation, but he’d thought she might have softened in the weeks since they had last spoken. ‘That’s not fair, Gill,’ he said firmly.

‘Try telling all your girlfriends your wedding has been called off,’ said Gill. ‘You try taking your dress back to the shop, and calling up the cake-maker and the florist and all the rest of them, and telling them not to bother, your boyfriend can’t be fagged to go through with it.’ He could hear her choking back the sobs. ‘That’s bravery, Matt. Not clearing off and leaving me to clear up the mess.’

‘I was in a jam, Gill,’ said Matt. ‘I could have been killed. So could you.’

‘What kind of a jam?’ she said. ‘What’s happened to you?’

‘I can’t tell you, Gill, it’s against all the rules.’

‘You’re not back with the Regiment, are you? I thought you were finished with all of that.’

‘No,’ said Matt.

‘And where’s Damien gone? I haven’t been able to get him on the phone for days. He’s not involving you in a bit of crime, is he?’

Matt winced. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I can’t talk about it, but it’s almost over now. I just wanted to hear your voice and make sure you’re OK. And to say, this will all be over in a week or so. I’ll have my life back together.’ He hesitated, allowing a moment for the words to sink in. ‘When that happens, I want us to be together again.’

Matt held the receiver in his hands. He couldn’t be sure how many miles separated Cyprus from Marbella. They were at opposite ends of the Mediterranean. Yet, despite the distance, it was as if she were sitting right next to him. In his mind he could see her eyes and smell her hair. ‘Gill,’ he continued, ‘would that be OK?’

‘You think you can just break off the engagement, piss off on some stupid mission, then call me up and say, oh, I think its back on again – with one phone call?’ Her tone was starting to harden.

‘Two phone calls, then,’ said Matt quickly. ‘And a text message.’

She hesitated, then laughed.

First base, thought Matt.

‘Twenty phone calls, and the biggest diamond you ever saw,’ said Gill. ‘And then I might just think about it.’

Well, at least that can be arranged.

The street market in the centre of Limassol was thronging with people. The sun was beating down and there was a sharp smell of citrus fruits hanging in the air. Matt walked slowly through the crowds, his eyes scanning the stalls. Most of it was just the usual tourist junk: T-shirts, ornamental daggers, salad bowls and poorly made leather handbags. He paused over a knife, argued briefly with the shopkeeper about the price, then went on to the next stall.

Somewhere around here there must be a piece of jewellery or something to wear that Gill would really appreciate.

‘Find anything?’ said Cooksley.

‘Shopping for girls,’ said Matt. ‘Almost impossible. No way to tell what they like and don’t like.’

‘Do you think Jane might like this?’ Cooksley held up a brightly painted china salad bowl.

‘For Christ’s sake, no.’

The two men walked on in silence. Around them tourists were haggling, stallholders shouting, and a few locals out shopping. The sun was beating down, and as midday approached the temperature was starting to rise, but it was not yet uncomfortably hot. What’s the rush? Matt thought. We’ve got a whole week to sit around Limassol buying presents. I might as well take my time. ‘How about a beer down by the port?’ he said. ‘We can shop tomorrow or the next day.’

It was a ten-minute walk, through the main tourist districts, down to where the boats docked. Matt had been stationed in Cyprus for a couple of months of his Army stint, and the docks were the part of town he liked best. He could sit for hours drinking a beer and watching the ferries that worked the Aegean Sea, connecting the hundreds of tiny islands scattered between here, Turkey and Greece.

If I wasn’t a soldier, I would have been quite happy to have been a ferryman. That’s an honest, outdoor trade.

They stepped into the street. A few metres in front of them, a Mitsubishi Shogun suddenly swerved away from the kerb, its engine revving furiously. Matt pulled Cooksley back, tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt, but it was too late – the car winged the side of his hip, sending him crashing on to the road, his body sprawled across the tarmac. The car stopped ten metres away as the driver slammed on the brakes. Matt started running towards it, shouting at the idiot at the wheel. Then he heard the sound of rubber screeching against tarmac and realised that the car was on the move again – in reverse.

The bastard was trying to drive back over Cooksley.

Matt dived on to the road, grabbed Cooksley by the neck and somehow managed to heave and roll his body across the road and into the gutter. He dived with him, and through the corner of his eye he saw the big, thick tyres of the Shogun crunching past him, missing them both by just a few inches. The driver slammed on the brakes again, the engine revved and roared as reverse was thrown into first gear, then the vehicle started moving forwards again. Matt had to use all his strength to roll a few more inches, drag both their bodies on to the pavement. Around him, he could hear people shouting and screaming. The Shogun’s tyres slammed hard into the kerb and it bounced backwards. People started to crowd around them, but for a moment Matt could see the man sitting behind the wheel. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and Matt could feel the hatred pouring out of him.

Then the Shogun reversed, turned and disappeared up the street.

‘What happened?’ said Cooksley.

‘Somebody just tried to kill you,’ said Matt.

The mood around the table was sombre. They were sitting towards the back of the pool area, far enough away from the crowds that no one would hear what they were saying. Cooksley was wearing a bandage down the side of his face. He was bruised along his neck and arms, and there were plasters stuck on to three separate cuts. He would be OK, Matt had made sure of that. He had cleaned and dressed men with bullets through them, and a few cuts were not going to kill anyone. Certainly not a man of Cooksley’s strength.

‘You’re sure somebody was trying to kill you?’ said Damien.

‘It was an attempted assassination, no question,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve all seen them close enough to know what they look like. This guy drove the car straight at Cooksley. Then he reverses, and tries to back over him. The first time could have been an accident. But the second time, no way.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I saw his eyes. Looked like a rag-head.’

Reid shook his head, banging his fist on the table. ‘I say we find him and we kill him.’

‘Find him?’ said Matt, shrugging. ‘Where? He was driving a red Mitsubishi Shogun, I can tell you that. I didn’t see the number plate – and anyway, I don’t know how to trace cars in Cyprus.’

‘The question,’ said Ivan, ‘is who would want to kill Cooksley?’ He looked towards him. ‘Well?’

Cooksley looked straight back. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘There isn’t anybody, and anyway, nobody knows I’m here, except for us. Not even my wife.’

‘Al-Qaeda,’ said Damien. ‘They’re on to us already.’

‘But how would they know it’s us?’ asked Cooksley. ‘We killed all the buggers on the boat. Al-Qaeda have probably only just discovered it’s missing. How the fuck could they find us?’

‘Maybe it’s someone after our money,’ said Matt. ‘Maybe someone saw us stashing the gear into the Land Rover and decided to take a bit of it for themselves.’

‘What about your fence?’ said Ivan to Damien. ‘Does he know something?’

‘That couldn’t happen,’ snapped Damien.

‘He’s a fucking gangster, isn’t he?’ said Reid. ‘He knows we just nicked thirty million. He kills us off, and gets to pocket all of the loot for himself. Sounds like a good plan to me.’

‘It’s not just soldiers that have standards,’ Damien replied angrily. ‘Villains have them too. Our code is even stronger than yours. It’s impossible for a fence to do something like that – he’d be cutting his own throat.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, like I said, he doesn’t know who or where we are. I haven’t told him. All he knows is a big shipment is coming in next week. From somewhere. Anyway, Matt said it was an Arab.’

There was silence around the table, as if they were all turning over different possibilities. Over by the pool, Matt could see a girl getting thrown into the water by a pair of boys. Suddenly he wished he could be somewhere else.

‘Ivan spoke to someone,’ Reid said, looking around the table. ‘I saw him.’

Matt noticed four sets of eyes turn across the table and settle on Ivan. The rules had been made quite clear: they would speak to no one until the mission was complete. Nobody must know where they were until the loot was fenced and the money banked.

I broke the rule myself when I spoke to Gill.

‘Is it true?’ said Cooksley. ‘Did you speak to someone?’

Ivan raised his head. There was a look in his eyes Matt hadn’t seen before: part fear, part embarrassment and part defiance. ‘I had to call home,’ he said. ‘My wife and kids have been taken.’

‘What?’ said Matt.

‘The organisation has taken them,’ said Ivan. ‘The one I used to work for.’

‘Why?’ said Matt. ‘Has your cover been blown? Do they know you’ve been turned by Five?’

‘I don’t think so, but I took the Semtex we needed for this mission from one of their dumps,’ Ivan answered. ‘The IRA are meant to have decommissioned their weapons, but there is still plenty left. I guess they discovered I’d lifted some, put two and two together and decided it was for a private job. So they’ve taken Mary and the kids, and they want my share of the money. If I give it to them, they’ll let her go.’ He paused. ‘The Provos like to keep a monopoly. Nobody is allowed to start freelancing.’

‘You reckon they know you’ve been turned?’ said Matt.

‘Mary called me and told me all about it,’ Ivan said. ‘Said they knew I was doing a robbery, that’s all, and they wanted the money.’

‘I thought we’d agreed no contact,’ said Damien. ‘How did she know where to get hold of you?’

‘She sent me a text message, then I called her back, simple as that.’ He looked around the men at the table. ‘Of course I left a way for her to get hold of me. I bet all of you have done the same.’

‘Not me,’ snapped Damien. ‘I stick to my word.’

‘And you guys?’ said Ivan.

‘I haven’t spoken to Jane, but, yes, my mobile is switched on a couple of times a day,’ said Cooksley. ‘She could leave a message if there was an emergency.’

Reid nodded. ‘Same here,’ he said. ‘You never know. Something might happen to the kids.’

Matt leant forwards on the table. ‘If it’s confession time – I called Gill,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t tell her where I was.’

Ivan leant forwards, his elbows leaning on the table, the lines on his forehead creasing up. ‘Let me get this straight, you spoke to your girlfriend?’

‘I didn’t tell her where we are,’ Matt repeated.

‘You owe a lot of money to a Russian gangster, Matt,’ Ivan said. ‘If he knew how much money you’d just taken, he’d be after you.’ He paused, looking around the pool area. ‘This is Cyprus. The place is crawling with Russian mafia, in case you hadn’t noticed the accents in the bar. It’s where they come for their winter holidays.’

‘Let’s get back to you, Ivan,’ Reid said, his face reddening. ‘If the PIRA know how much money we have, they’ll be after the lot of us. Those guys would kill us for free, never mind thirty million. It’s you that’s the problem, you have been right from the start.’

‘He’s right,’ chipped in Cooksley.

Ivan raised his hands into the air. ‘I’m not defending myself,’ he said. ‘Nobody is more worried about this than me. But I fight my own battles. If there’s a problem, I’ll fix it.’

‘Once a traitor, always a traitor,’ said Reid, stubbing out a cigarette into an already bulging ashtray.

Ivan turned to look at Matt. ‘Look, it was an Arab driving the car, you say?’

Matt nodded.

‘Not an Irishman then. The Provos wouldn’t go after Cooksley. They’d come after me.’

The first sign of trouble, and everyone starts turning on each other.

‘So we have four possibilities,’ Damien interrupted. ‘It could be al-Qaeda, it could be a local gang, it could be the IRA, or it could be the Russian mafia. Either way, you know what that says to me?’ He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each man in turn. ‘We get the hell out of here. Because whichever of those four it is, they already know where we are, and I don’t want to be around when they catch up with us.’

Sallum parked the Lexus LS430 in the bay, next to the Fords, Vauxhalls and Rovers. A light drizzle was falling. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky, and even though it was only three-thirty in the afternoon, the night seemed to have started to draw in. He slammed the door shut, pocketed the keys, then walked swiftly towards the factory and the main office.

For Ibrahim bin Assaf himself to have asked to see him in person, he knew it had to be important. Field operatives rarely had any direct contact with their masters. That was not how the organisation worked.

Assaf Foods occupied a sprawling factory and warehouse on the outskirts of West Bromwich, close to Birmingham. It made Indian ready-meals for supermarkets, irradiated chicken tikka masala that sat in the microwave for five minutes. Assaf had started the business twenty years ago as a young Pakistani immigrant. Now he was one of the wealthiest, most respected figures in the British Muslim community.

If only they knew, thought Sallum as he strode across the factory floor. The infidels wouldn’t be so keen on their curries then.

He sat for a moment in the waiting room, glancing out to the floor below. He could see the giant machines slicing the battery chickens, spitting out the bones and throwing the remnants into huge bins. Machine cutters were dicing vegetables, and conveyor belts dropped spices into huge vats of oil and grease. A small cloud of smoke hung over the factory, and the rich smell of raw curry powder infiltrated the building.

Disgusting. A nation that has forgotten how to cook for itself has also forgotten how to defend itself. That is why they are weak and we are strong.

‘Sallum alakim,’ said Assaf, standing up from his desk and shaking Sallum warmly by the hand. ‘You are well, my brother?’

Assaf was a short, compact man who looked younger than his fifty-three years. His hair was greying but still thick, and although there were lines around his forehead his skin was still smooth and velvety. His eyes were set deep into his head, and his long nose raked out from the centre of his face. He had bearing and presence, Sallum observed, and a natural sense of command. Yet at the same time, he was discreet: you wouldn’t notice him until he meant to put you under his spell. That was probably what made him such a successful businessman.

‘I am well, sir,’ Sallum replied stiffly.

‘The operation in Saudi Arabia, it went better than we could have expected,’ said Assaf. ‘You are to be congratulated.’

Sallum bowed his head. ‘To serve the movement in any way is an honour.’

‘Quite so,’ answered Assaf. ‘May it be just the first of many great victories.’ He turned, walking back towards his desk. The office was decorated simply – a desk, a computer screen, and a couple of leather armchairs for visitors. A copy of the FT and a pair of trade magazines lay on a coffee table. There was a picture of his wife and children on the desk, and a modest portrait of the prophet on the wall. But otherwise there was nothing to suggest that Assaf was anything but the most respectable of businessmen.

‘But any movement will experience setbacks as well as victories,’ said Assaf.

Sallum moved closer to the desk. ‘A setback?’

‘Unfortunately so,’ Assaf replied. ‘A boat carrying gold and jewels belonging to the organisation has been attacked and sunk. All the goods on board have been stolen, and our men killed.’

Sallum could feel a bead of sweat forming on his brow. ‘Nobody would dare,’ he said. ‘It is an outrage.’

‘They have dared,’ said Assaf. ‘But they will regret it.’ He laid out five photographs on his desk, each one depicting a different man. Sallum picked up the pictures one by one, holding them carefully between thumb and index finger. On the back of each picture was stencilled a different name in black ink: Matt Browning, Damien Walters, Ivan Rowe, Alan Reid and Joe Cooksley. ‘Are these the men?’

‘They are British,’ replied Assaf. ‘They took the boat, and stole our money.’ He paused, turning towards the window and looking out at the drizzly suburbs of Birmingham. ‘In the Koran, in the book of Abu Dawuud, it is written: “A thief was brought to the Prophet four times and his punishments were amputations of the right hand, the left foot, the left hand and then the right foot. On the fifth occasion the Prophet had him killed.”’ Assaf looked towards Sallum, meeting his eyes. ‘I think we know what it is the Prophet would wish to be done.’